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\ 







HIS NAME. 


IN 

STORY OR 1 TZEEIE "W ALDElsTSES 


SEVEN HUNDRED TEARS AGO , 


BY 

EDWARD EVERETT HALE, 

■ 

Author of “ The Man without a Country,” “My Double etc . 




CHICAGO: 

FAIRBANKS, PALMER & CO. 
1882. 





COPYRIGHT BY E. E. HA.LE. 
1832 . 


CUSHING, THOMAS <ft CO., PRINTERS, CHICAGO. 




INTRODUCTION. 


This book was first published in 1873. Its circulation has been con- 
stantly extending in America and in Europe. It has been translated into 
French, and a cheap edition published in the French language for circula- 
tion in France. 

A new and cheap edition is now called for to meet the demand foi 
the book in the Look up Legion. 

The Look-up-Legion was founded in the winter of 1874 by Miss 
Mary A. Lathbury. It has branches in all parts of the Union. Among 
the Chinese and in Europe it adopts as its emblem a Maltese cross as seen 
on the title page of In His Name with the four mottoes of Wadsworth 
Club on the arms of the cross. The mottoes are, 

Look up and not doum. 

Look forward and not back. 

Look out and not in. 

Lend a hand. 

They express the central realities of a Christian life, Faith, Hope 
and Love. 

The Wadsworth Clubs, of which the Look-up-Legion is far the 
largest, began with the publication of the book called Ten Times One is 
Ten, in the year 1870. In the summer of that year the first Wadsworth 
Club known to me was founded. It was the Club of Harry Wadsworth 
Helpers, established by Miss Ella Russell in the city of New York. 

From that time to this clubs have been established in difierent parts 
of the world, so that I believe now all the continents in the world and the 
islands of the Pacific ocean have their Wadsworth organizations. These 
organizations have different names, such as In His Name Club, Chicago 
Club; The Clover Leaf ; The Harry Wadsworth Helpers; The Lend a 
Hand, which is a favorite name; The Look Out Guards; The Ninth Pres- 
byterian; The Old and New; The Ten Times One is Ten, and the Wads- 
worth Quartette. But very much the largest one is the Look-up-Legion. 

EDWARD E. HALE. 


Boston, Nov. 15th, 1881. 


4 


IN HIS NAME 


CHAPTER I. 

FELICIE. 


Felicis was the daughter of Jean 
Waldo. She was the joy of her 
father’s life, and the joy of the life 
of Madame Gabrielle, his wife. She 
was well named Felicie, for she was 
happy herself and she made every- 
body happy. She was a sunbeam in 
the house, in the workshops, in the 
court-yard, and among all the neigh- 
bors. Her father and mother were 
waked in the morning by her sing- 
ing ; and many a time, when Jean 
Waldo was driving a hard bargain 
with some spinner from the country, 
the mere sight of his pretty daughter 
as she crossed the court-yard, and 
the sound of her voice as she sang a 
scrap of a hymn or of a crusading 
song, would turn his attention from 
his barter, and he would relax his 
hold on the odd sols and deniers as 
if he had never clung to them. By 
the same spells she was the joy of 
the neighborhood. The beggars 
loved her, the weavers loved her, she 
could come and go as she chose even 
among the fullers and dyers, though 
they were rough fellows, and there 
was nothing she could not say or do 
with their wives and children. When 
the country spinners came in with 
their yarn, or the weavers with their 
webs, they would wait, on one excuse 
or another, really to get a word with 
her ; and many was the rich farm in 
the valley to which Felicie went in 


the summer or autumn to make a long 
visit as she chose. Felicie was queen 
of her father’s household and of all 
around. 

On one of the last days in Decem- 
ber, Felicie was making a pilgrimage, 
after her own fashion, to the church 
of St. Thomas of Fourvieres. The hill 
of Fourvieres is a bold height, rising 
almost from the heart of the old city 
of Lyons. And Felicie liked nothing 
better than a brisk scramble to the top, 
where, as she said, she might see some- 
thing. This was her almost daily 44 pil- 
grimage.” She gave it this name in 
sport, not irreverent. For, as she 
went, she always passed by old wo- 
men who were making a pilgrimage, 
as they do to this hour, to the church 
of St. Thomas (now the church of 
44 Our Lady”), which was supposed, 
and is supposed, to have great power 
in saving from misfortune those who* 
offer their prayers there. Felicie in 
passing always looked into the little- 
church, and crossed herself with holy 
water, and fell on her knees at an 
altar in a little chapel where was a 
picture of St. Felicie lying on the- 
ground, wth a vision of Our Lady 
above. The Felicie who was not a 
saint would say “Ave Maria” here 
and 44 Our Father who art in 
heaven,” and would wait a minute 
upon her knees, to 44 see if her father 
had anything to say to her ” ; and 


2 


In His Name . 


then would cross herself again, and, 
as she passed the great altar, would 
kneel once more, and so would be 
out in the fresh air again. 

This was almost an every-day oc- 
currence. On this day Felicie waited 
a little longer. Among a thousand 
votive offerings in the church*, hung 
there by those who were grateful for 
an answer to their prayers, she saw 
to-day two which she had never seen 
before. They were pictures, — not, 
to tell the truth, very well painted. 
But to Felicie, the finer or coarser art 
was a matter of very little account. 
Each of them represented a scene of 
preservation in danger. In one of 
them, a young girl, hardly older than 
Felicie herself, was to be seen, as she 
safely floated from a river which bore 
the ruins of a broken bridge ; in the 
other, a young knight on horseback 
received unhurt the blows of five 
terrible Saracens. The Holy Moth- 
er could be seen in the clouds with 
a staff on her arm, turning off the 
lances of the Paynim. Felicie looked 
a moment at ' this picture, but long, 
very long, at the other. 

The disaster which it represented 
was one which the girl had seen her- 
self, and which had made upon her 
an impression for her life. Only the 
year before, Richard the Lion-Heart- 
ed and Philip Augustus of France 
had come to Lyons together, each 
with a splendid retinue of knights 
and other soldiers, on their way to 
the crusade, The Archbishop of Ly- 
ons was then really an independent 
prince, and with all the dignity of 
an independent prince he had re- 
ceived the two kings. There had 
been much feasting. There had been 
a splendid ceremony of high mass in 
the cathedral, and at last, when the 
two armies had recruited themselves, 
it was announced that they were to 


take up their march to the Holy 
City. Of course all Lyons was on 
the watch to see the display. Some 
were in boats upon the river ; some 
were waiting to see them cross the 
bridge ; some walked far out on the 
road. Girls with flowers threw them 
before the horse of the handsome 
English king, and priests in splendid 
robes carried the banners of the 
churches and sang anthems as they 
went. And all Lyons, young and 
old, was sure that in two or three 
short months this famous host would 
be in the City of our Lord ! 

Alas, and alas ! Hardly had the 
two kings themselves crossed the 
bridge, and a few of their immediate 
attendants with them, when, as the 
great crowd of towns-people pressed 
in upon the men-at-arms, all eager 
to see the show, they felt beneath 
their feet a horrid tremor for one 
moment, and then — first one length 
of the bridge, and then, in terrible 
succession, two others, gave wav, 
and the whole multitude — soldiers, 
horses, men, women, and children — 
were plunged into the Rhone below. 
The torrent was fast, and swept the 
ruin of timbers and the mass of 
struggling people and beasts down in 
horrible confusion. The boatmen on 
the river did their best to rescue one 
and another, but were themselves in 
danger almost equal fco that of those 
who were struggling in the water. 
The kings turned their horses and 
rode to the shore, but were as power- 
less as children to help or even t* 
command. And so, in one short 
hour, this day of glory and of victory 
was shrouded as in clouds of dark- 
ness. 

It seemed a miracle, indeed, that 
only a few were drowned in the chaos ; 
but of those who were rescued, many 
were maimed for life, and there was 


In His Name. 


3 


not a bouse in Lyons but bad its own 
tale of danger and suffering. 

Tbe picture wbicb Felicie stopped 
to look at in tbe cburcb of St. Thomas 
represented this calamity, and tbe 
preservation, by what was called mir- 
acle, of Gabrielle L’Estrange, a god- 
child of Felicie’ s mother. For her- 
self, Felicie had seen the breaking of 
the bridge from the safe distance of 
her eyrie on the mountain. The girl 
had wisely seen that even her father’s 
good-will could not do much for a 
child like her in the crowd. She had 
declared her determination to see the 
w T hole ; and while others went into the 
streets to see the armies pass them, 
Felicie had perched herself on the very 
top of the hill Fourvieres, where she 
! could see every company join in the 
cortege, where she could hear the 
blast of music come up to her from 
the plain. 

As she sat here, as the army began 
to cross the river, the girl had been 
instantly conscious of the great dis- 
aster. She could see the companies 
in the rear break their ranks and rush 
towards the stream. She could see the 
dust of the ruin rise above the river, 
and could hear the hoarse shouting of 
people screaming and commanding. 
She had guessed what the calamity 
was, and had hurried home to meet 
only too many stories of personal 
sorrow. Before night they had known 
how Gabrielle had been nearly lost, 
and how she had been saved. And 
all the mingled memories of that day 
of glory and of grief came back to Fe- 
licie again, now that she saw the pic- 
ture of her playmate’s preservation. 

She left the little church, crossing 
herself again with the holy water, a 
little more thoughtful than she entered 
it. The “ problem of evil ” crossed 
her mind; and she asked herself 
why the Virgin should interpose to 


save Gabrielle, when others were left 
to perish. But she did not ask this 
with bitterness. She knew there was 
answer somewhere. And as she 
climbed yet higher up the hill, and 
came out on the glories of her eyrie, 
the wonders of the winter prospect 
— more beautiful than ever, as she 
thought — swept away all memories 
of death or sorrow or doubt ; and the 
child wrapped her thick shawl round 
her, as she sat beneath the shelter of 
a friendly wall, with the full sunlight 
blazing on her, to wonder for the 
thousandth time on the beauty of the 
panorama beyond and below. 

There are who say that no view in 
F ranee can equal it ; and I am Sure 
I do not wonder. At her feet the 
cheerful city lay between the rivers 
Saone and Rhone, which meet here, 
just below her. The spires and 
towers of the cathedral and the 
churches, even the tallest columns 
of smoke, as they rose in the still air, 
were all far, far below the girl on her 
eyrie. Beyond, she could see at 
first large farms with their granges, 
their immense hay-stacks, their barns, 
and their orchards. She could pick 
out and name one and another where 
at the vintage and at harvest she had 
made pleasant visits this very year. 
Further, all became brown and purple 
and blue and gray. Sometimes on 
a hill she could make out a white 
church tower, or the long walls of a 
castle, — just some sign that men and 
women and happy girls like herself 
lived there. But Felicie’s eye did 
not rest so long on these. Far above 
and still beyond — O how far be- 
yond ! — was her “ old friend,” as the 
girl called Mont Blanc. And to-day 
he had his rosy face, she said. The 
sunset behind her was making the 
snow of the mountain blush with 
beauty. And* nothing can be con- 


4 


In His Name. 


ceived more dreamy and more lovely 
than this “ vision,” as Felicie called it, 
which even she did not see five times 
in a year from her eyrie ; and which 
many a lazy canon and abbot, and 
many a prosperous weaver like her 
father, and many a thrifty merchant 
in the town, had never seen at all. 

“ Good-evening, dear old friend,” 
said the girl, laughing, as if the 
mountain could hear her ninety miles 
away, — “ good-evening, dear old 
friend. You are lovely to-night in 
your evening dress. Will you not 
come to my Christmas partj^ ? Thank 
you, old friend, for coming out to-night 
to see me. I should have been very 
lonely without you, dear old friend. 
There’s a kiss for you ! — and there ’s 
another ! — and there ’s a feather for 
you, and there ’s another ! ” And she 
threw into the west wind two bits of 
down, and pleased herself with watch- 
ing them as they floated high and 
quick towards the mountain in the 
east. “ Good-by, dear old friend, 
good-by. Mamma says I must be 
home at sunset. Won’t you speak to 
me? — no matter; all the same I 
know you love me. Good-by ! good- 
by ! ” And so she tripped down, 
thinking to ' herself as she went 
that everybody and everything did 
love her, which was very true ; think- 
ing that for her, indeed, God’s king- 
dom seemed to have come, and his 
will to be done on earth as it was in 
heaven. And the shadow, if it may 
be called a shadow, of the horrors 
depicted in the church of St. Thomas 
was ail swept away. 

Down she tripped again by the 
open church, and one after another 
beggar at the door blessed her as 
she said, u God bless you.” Down 
she tripped by the convent walls, 
and wondered how the gardens with- 
in could be half as beautiful as the 


world without. And she wondered! 
if the sisters here climbed up the bell- 
tower and looked off on the eastern 
horizon to see her old friend, and 
whether they knew how friendly he | 
was to those who loved him. Down 
she tripped by one zigzag path and an- 
other, known to her and to the goats 
and to none beside ; and so, before j 
the sun was fairly down, she had 
nodded to Pierre the weaver, and I 
had stopped and spoken to Ronet j 
the dyer, and had caught up and 
kissed the twin babies who could | 
hardly tottle along the road, whom 
Marguerite the wife of young Stephen 1 
was leading along ; she had said a j 
merry word to half the workmen | 
and half their wives, and had come I 
into the court-yard, and had pushed 
back the stately heavy oak door, and j 
stood in the hall of Jean Waldo’s 
comfortable house. 

Her mother came running out from ; 
the kitchen wing to meet the girl. 
And Felicie ran up to kiss her as she 
entered, as was her pretty way. 
And Mistress Gabrielle thought, as i 
she had thought a thousand times, 
that nobody in the world was as pretty 
as Felicie, and also that Felicie never i 
had looked as pretty as she did at j 
that very moment. This also hac* j 
Madam Gabrielle thought a thousand ! 
times before. The girl’s tightly-fin j 
ting tunic was of fine white woollen. 
But the cape, as in those days the 
mantle began to be called, also ol 
woollen, was of the brightest scarlet, 
and, as she had wound it round and j 
round her head, she became a Red 
Riding-Hood indeed. Her cheeks j 
glowed with life and health as she 
came running in from the frosty air, 
and the sharp contrast of her dress 
was none too bold for a complexion 
so brilliant. It was the very imper* 
sonation of life and joy. 


In His Name. 


5 


“ Felicie, my child, I have been 
asking for you. It is St. Victoria's 
night, you know, and I am giving 
to them all their Christmas medi- 
cine. ” 

“ Medicine for me, my dear moth- 
er ! ” And truly the child seemed 
to need medicine as little as the 
larks. 

“ Of course, dear Felicie. Has there 
; been a midsummer or a Christmas 
since you were born in which I did 
not give j T ou your medicine ? And so 
is it, thanks to the blessed Virgin and 
to St. Felicie, that you are so fresh 
and so well. I have given to your 
, father and to all their men their gen- 
i tian. I have given to all the wom- 
en their St. Johnswort, and here is a 
nice new bottle of the mixture of lav- 
ender and rosemary, which I brewed 
for you when you were away with the 
j Landiys. I have it all waiting." 

Felicie knew by long experience 
that there was no good in argument. 
Indeed the child was too much used 
to doing what her mother bade to 
make argument at any time. This 
was but a gulp or two of a disagree- 
able taste, and she knew there 
would be waiting a honey-cake and an 
orange after it. So she kissed her 
mother, ran up-stairs and put away 
| cape and wimple and girdle, and came 
down-stairs singing : — 

i My lady came down from her pretty gay 
room, 

In the hall my lady sat down ; 

Her apron was heaped with the roses in 
bloom, 

And her fingers braided a crown, 
crown, crown! 

And her fingers braided a crown ! 

“But, mamma ! how much there 
is of it. I never had so much be- 
fore ! ” 

“ Darling, you are older now. You 


have passed your second climacteric.” 
Mistress Gabrielle could be learned 
when she chose. 

“ But, mamma, it tastes horridly. 
It never tasted so badly before.” 

“ Dear child, drink it right down. 
Here is your orange, to take the 
taste away. Perhaps it is a little 
stronger than we have made it. The 
leaves were the very best I ever 
saw.” 

And the dear child made a laugh- 
ing face of disgust, and then gulped 
down the bitter mixture as she was 
bidden. 

But then all light faded from her 
face. With agony such as her moth- 
er never saw there, she screamed, 
“ O mamma, dear mamma ! — it 
burns me, it burns me ! — you never 
hurt your darling so before ! ” And 
with sobs she could not repress, she 
hid her face in her mother’s besom, 
crying out, “ O, how it burns, how it 
burns ! ” 

Mistress Gabrielle was frightened 
indeed. She tore open the orange, 
but there was little comfort there. 
She sent for oils and for snow, and 
for cold water from the very bottom 
of the well. But the child’s agony 
seemed hardly checked ; and though 
with a resolute will she would choke 
down her groans that she might 
not terrify her mother, it was impos- 
sible for her to check the quivering 
from head to foot, which was a sign 
of the torture of mouth and throat 
and stomach. Mistress Gabrielle 
called for Jeanne and Marie, and 
they carried the poor child to her bed. 
They put hot cloths upon her. They 
warmed her feet and her hands. They 
made smokes of gums and barks for 
her to breathe. They tried all the 
simple and all the complicated arts 
of the household. One and another 
neighbor was hurried in, and each 


6 


In His Name. 


contradicted the other, and each 
advised. 

One or other of the more powerful 
applications would give a moment’s 
relief, but only a moment’s. Tears 
which she could not check would roll 
down Felicie’s cheek to show her in- 
ward torture, and that terrible quiver 
which Mistress Gabrielle learned to 
dread so horribly would come in with 
every third or fourth minute. Once 
and again she had sent for Jean Wal- 
do, her husband. But none of the 
lads could find him. Night had closed 
dark around them, and he did not 
return. It was then that she took the 
responsibility which she had never 
taken before, and sent for the young 
Florentine doctor, whose shop, next 
the cathedral, attracted the wonder 
and superstition of all the neighbor- 


hood. “ Bid him come, Adrian, on 
the moment! Tell him that my 
daughter is dying, and that he has 
not a moment to lose. For the love 
of Christ, beg him to come on the in 
stant.” Dying ! The word struck 
new terror in the whole panic-swayed 
household. Everybody had been in 
distress, but no one had dared think 
or say that the darling of them all* 
but just now so strong and so happy* 
could die ! Least of all had Mistress. 
Gabrielle permitted herself to think 
it. But now all her pride was gone. 
Niobe before Apollo was not more 
prostrate. She knew that if the Flor- 
entine was to render any help, it must 
be rendered right soon. And so, with 
a calmness of despair at which she 
wondered herself, she sent word to 
him that her daughter was dying. 


CHAPTER II. 

JEAN WALDO. 


Giulio, the Florentine doctor, came 
down the street with the boy who had 
been sent for him, and with a black- 
amoor who bore a great hamper which 
contained his medicines and his in- 
struments. As they rapidly ap- 
proached the doorway they overtook 
Jean Waldo himself, slowly walking 
up the street. Till they spoke to 
him, the father was wholly uncon- 
scious of the calamity which had 
fallen on his child. 

If you had told Jean Waldo that 
afternoon, as he sat in the Treasurer’s 
seat at the guild-meeting, that, in 
after times, his name of Waldo would 
be best known to all people, in all 
lands, because his kinsman, Pierre 
Waldo, bore it, he would have been 
much amazed, and would have taken 


you for a fool. Kinsmen they were* \ 
there was no doubt of that. Nobody 
could look on their faces — nay, even j 
on their eyes or their beards, or on j 
the shape of their hands or their fin- \ 
ger-nails, and not see that there was I 
near kindred between them. “ We 
are both from the valley of Vaud,’ r 
Jean Waldo used to say when peeple j 
questioned him. But he was not ' 
pleased to have them question him. : ;j 
He had taken good care not to mix ;i 
himself up with Pierre Waldo’s her- | 
esies. “ Why does he want to trouble S 
himself about the priests ? ” said Jean j 
Waldo. “ Why does he not do as I do ? 

I take care of myself, and I let other 3 
people take care of themselves. Why i 
cannot Pierre Waldo, my kinsman, >, 
if he is my kinsman, do as I do?” 


In His Name. 


7 


Al^d so Jean Waldo went on in his 
prosperous way. He squeezed down 
the spinners who brought yam to him. 
He squeezed the weavers who brought 
him webs. He kept a good company 
of the best workmen in his shops, 
and he had forty looms of his own, 
with his own weavers. He put up 
linen cloths for market more neatly 
and handsomely, the traders said, 
than any man in Lyons, and so he 
prospered exceedingly. “This is 
what comes/’ he said, “ of minding 
your own business, and letting other 
people’s business alone.” 

Pierre Waldo, the kinsman of whom 
Jean spoke with such contempt, and 
who is now remembered in all the 
world where the Christian religion is 
known, had been a prosperous mer- 
chant in Lyons. But Pierre Waldo 
was not one of those who went to 
mass only because the priests bade 
him. He went to the mass because 
God had been good to him and to 
his, and he wanted to express his 
thanks. He was glad to express 
thanks as other people did and where 
they did. He had always had a pas- 
sion for reading, for in his boy- 
hood his mother had taught him to 
read. And when, one day, a parch- 
ment book came in his way, which 
proved to be an Evangelistary, or 
copy of the Four Gospels, in Latin, 
Pierre Waldo began to try to read 
this, and with wonder and delight 
which cannot be told. Father John 
of Lugio, the priest whom he knew 
best, an honest man and an humble 
priest, was willing to help Pierre as 
he could about the Latin. And there 
was not so much difference in those 
da}'s between Latin and the Romance 
language which half Pierre Waldo’s 
customers used, that he should find it 
hard to make out the language in 
which the book was written that so 


excited him . When Father John saw 
how much pleasure Pierre Waldo 
took in such reading, he was glad to 
show to him, in the church and in 
the vestry, other parchments, in 
which were Paul’s letters and the 
Book of the Revelation. And at 
last Pierre had seen the whole of the 
Old Testament also, and he and the 
good priest had read some parts of 
the Old Law. 

Who shall say whether this knowl- 
edge of the Bible could ever have 
come to anything with Pierre Waldo, 
but for a terrible incident which made 
its mark on liis whole life ? He and 
the other merchants of his section 
of the town used to meet each other 
very often at little feasts, in which 
they showed their hospitality and 
wealth at the same time, in the 
elegance of the service, the rich- 
ness of the food, and in the choice 
of the good old wine. A party of 
them were together one night at such 
a feast in the house of Robert the 
Gascon. They had eaten a hearty 
supper. The wine had passed freely, 
and one of the company, a favor- 
ite with all of them, had sung a love 
song such as the romances of the day 
were full of. The glasses clattered 
in the applause, and one and an- 
other of the guests bade him sing it 
again. But for some reason W alter, 
the singer, declined. The moment he 
said “ No/’ William Jal, an old and 
near friend of Pierre Waldo, who 
was sitting at his side at the table, 
rose and said, with a loud laugh, 
“You shall sing it, Walter ! ” And 
he brought his fist down on the table , 
and with this terrible oath he went 
on, — 

“ By God, you shall sing it, 
Walter, or I will never taste wine 
again ! ” 

Hardly had the awful words left 


8 


In His Name . 


his mouth when the expression of his 
face changed in sudden agony. He 
seemed to try to balance himself at 
the table for an instant, and then 
fell dead upon the floor. 

From that moment Pierre Waldo 
was a new man. In the night of 
horror which followed this scene of 
mockery and revel, in his wretched 
efforts to comfort the widow to whom 
they carried the cold corpse home, 
and the poor children who were waked 
from their beds to look upon it, — 
in that night of horror Pierre W aldo 
had chance to look forward and to 
look backward. And he did so. 
From that time forward his reading 
of the Gospel was no mere literary 
amusement. He copied it for his 
own use ; he translated it for his 
neighbors’ use. He found that other 
men, anxious and pious, had already 
felt as he began to feel, — that all the 
people had a right to parable, to 
psalm, and to the words of the blessed 
Master. One after another of his 
customers brought him, from one and 
another town where they travelled, 
bits of Paul or Matthew or Luke 
which had been translated into the 
vulgar language. Pierre Waldo’s 
home and his warehouse became the 
centre of those who sought a purer 
and simpler life. For himself, after 
that dreadful night with the father- 
less children and their mother. Pierre 
W aldo said he would give all he had 
to the poor. Whoever was in need 
in Lyons or in the country round 
came to him for advice and for help, 
and they gained it. If they came 
for food, they had food — always they 
found a friend. 

Almost all the company of mer- 
chants who were with Pierre on that 
night joined him in this service of 
those that were in need. The com- 
pany of them began to be called, and 


called themselves, the “ Poor Men of 
Lyons.” They had no new religion. 
Their religion was what they found 
in the Saviour’s words to the young 
nobleman, to Peter the fisherman, 
and to Mary Magdalene. And so 
taken were they with these words, 
that they read them to all who came for 
help to them, and were eager to copy 
them out in the people’s language, 
and give the copies to all who would 
carry them into the country. 

Almost at the same time, Francisco 
of Assisi was moved in much the 
same way to give up all he had to the 
poor, and to preach the gospel of 
poverty. If these two men had come 
together ! But it does not appear 
that they ever heard each other’s 
names. 

No ! At that time Lyons was gov- 
erned wholly by the great religious 
corporation w'hich was known as the 
Chapter of St. John, under the Arch- 
bishop, who was in fact a Prince, and 
as a Prince governed the city and the 
country at his will. When he found 
that the merchants were entering on 
the business of distributing the Scrip- 
tures and reading them to the peo- 
ple, the Archbishop and the Chapter 
forbade it. The “ Poor Men of Ly- 
ons ” must leave that business to the 
clergy. 

Pierre and his friends were amazed. 
They went to the Holy Father at 
Rome, and told him what their work 
was. He was well pleased with it, 
gave them his approval, but told 
them they must not preach without 
the permission of the Archbishop 
and Chapter. This permission those 
great men would not grant to the 
“ Poor Men.” They refused it 
squarely. 

Refused permission to make the 
words of the Lord Jesus known! 
It was at this point that Pierre Waldo 


In His Name . 


9 


and the Poor Men of Lyons broke 
away from the priests and the Pope. 
“ They have abandoned the faith,” he 
-said ; “ and we ought to obey God 
rather than man.” 

This was the signal on which the 
Archbishop and the Chapter drove 
Pierre Waldo out from Lyons, and all 
those who followed him. His house 
and his warehouses, all his books that 
they could find, they seized, and he 
and his had to take flight into the 
mountains. 

This was the reason why the pros- 
perous Jean Waldo, the master-wea- 
ver, the father of the pretty Felicie, 
was not well pleased when men asked 
him if he and Pierre Waldo were kins- 
men or no. He did not want to be 
mixed up with any “ Poor Men of 
Lyons.” Not he. He was not one of 
the poor men of Lyons, and he did 
not mean to be. Pierre Waldo was in 
a good business, he said ; there was 
not a merchant in Lyons with better 
prospects before him, when he took up 
with his reading and writing, his beg- 
gars, his ministers, and all the rest 
of their crew. And so Jean Waldo 
would come out, again and again, 
with his favorite motto : “ I take 
care of myself, let them take care of 
themselves. If Pierre would have 
stuck to his own business, he would 
not be hiding in the mountains there.” 

Such was the man who, as he slow- 
ly walked up the hill just now, 
thought himself above all need of ask- 
ing a service from any man in this 


world. He would not have recog- 
nized Giulio the Florentine this 
very afternoon, if they had passed 
each other, though he knew the man’s 
face perfectly well. If you had asked 
him why he did not salute such a 
man, or even show a consciousness of 
his existence, Jean W aldo would have 
said, — 

“ I take care of myself ; let the 
Florentine take care of himself. My 
business is not his, and his is not 
mine.” 

But now, as has been said, in the 
narrow street, the Florentine and his 
servant, and the boy Adrian, who 
had been sent to summon him in hot 
haste, overtook the dignified master- 
weaver, as he walked home slowly and 
complacently. It was with no little 
difficulty that Jean Waldo was made 
to understand that his treasure and 
delight, his own Felicie, who only at 
dinner-time had been so happy and 
so lovely, was dying, or seemed to 
be dying, in the home he left so little 
while before. 

After this it was not Jean Waldo 
who walked slowly in that party. He 
seized the great basket which the 
black servant bore, and fairly com- 
pelled him in his energy to go faster. 
He poured question upon question 
out as to what had happened upon the 
Florentine, who was of course wholly 
unable to answer him. And thus 
the breathless party arrived together, 
under the heavy archway of the court- 
yard of Jean Waldo’s house. 


CHAPTER III, 

THE FLORENTINE. 

The young physician whom Mad- rescue, was a native of the city of tlor- 
ame Gabrielle had summoned to the ence, and he had not been so long a 


10 


In His Name. 


resident of Lyons bat that he was 
still called “ the Florentine. ” At 
that time the profession of a physi- 
cian, as a distinct calling among 
men, was scarcely known. The 
clergy were expected to know some- 
thing of the cure of disease, and in 
some instances they really attained 
remarkable skill in its treatment. 

But with the knowledge of east- 
ern art which had come in with the 
first and second crusades, and with 
the persistent study of those natural- 
ists whom we call alchemists, a wider 
and more scientific knowledge of the 
human frame and its maladies was 
beginning to take the place of old 
superstitions and other delusions. 
And thus it happened that here and 
there was a man who, without being 
a priest on the one hand or a barber 
on the other, had gained the repute 
of understanding disease and of the 
power of keeping death at bay. 
Such a man was Giulio the Floren- 
tine. 

He moved quickly and with a de- 
cided step. lie spoke little, and al- 
ways after a moment’s pause, if he 
were questioned. It seemed as if he 
spoke by some sort; of machinery, 
which could not be adjusted without 
an instant’s delay. What he said 
was crisp and decided, as were his 
steps in walking. It was impossible 
to see his manner, even of crossing 
the room, or of arranging his pa- 
tient’s head upon the pillow, without 
feeling confidence in him. “ I felt 
as if there were a prophet in the 
house,” said Mathilde, one of the 
inaid-servants, who had been sent 
for hot water into the kitchen, and 
in that minute took occasion to re- 
peat her hasty observations 'to the 
excited party assembled there. 

When he entered the sick-room, 
it was nr ore than an hour after Fe- 


licie had drained to the bottom the 
beaker which Madame Gabrielle had 
filled full of the bitter decoction. 
The burning pain of the first draught 
had passed away or had been relieved 
by some of the palliatives which had 
been given. But the second stage 
was if possible more terrible than 
that of the agony of the beginning. 
On the pretty bed where they had 
laid her, in the chamber which the 
child had decorated with the various 
treasures which she had acquired in 
her wanderings, she would lie for 




a few minutes as if insensible, and 
then would spring up in the most 
violent convulsions. She threw her- 
self from side to side without know- 
ing any of those who tried to soothe 
her, and who were forced to hold 
her. A few minutes of this violence 
would be followed by renewed insen- 
sibility which seemed almost as ter- 
rible. 

Just after one of these paroxysms, 
her mother was wiping away the 
frothy blood which burst from the 
poor child’s nostrils, when the Flor- 
entine entered the room. She made 
place for him, in a moment, by the 
bed ; and, with that firm hand of 
the prophet, which struck Mathilde 
with such awe, he felt his patient’s 
forehead and then the pulse in her 
wrist. Then he examined, one by 
one, the simples which the mother 
and her neighbors had been adminis- 
tering by way of emetic and of an- 
tidote. From his own hamper, with 
the aid of the blackamoor, he sup- 
plied the places of these with tinc- 
tures — of which the use in medicine 


was then almost wholly new — of 
which he knew the force, and on the 
results of which he could rely. He 
applied and continued the external 
applications which the eager women 
were making to the poor child’s body. 


In His Name . 


11 


But having noted, in about two min- 
utes, who of these various assistants 
had a head, and never spoke, he 
then banished from the room, with 
a kind dignity that nothing could 
resist, all the others, except the poor 
mother. He crossed to the window, 
and, though the night was so cold, 
he admitted a breath of the winter 
air. Then he came back to the bed- 
side, and, with the courtesy of a 
monarch, asked Madame to tell him 
all she could of the tragedy. With 
the courtesy of a monarch he listened 
to her rambling story, still keep- 
ing his hand on the forehead or on 
the pulse of his patient. Madame 
Gabrielle,with the tears running down 
her cheeks, plunged into the account 
of what had happened ; and to all she 
said he gave careful heed, never once 
attempting to check her, even in the 
wildest excursions which she made 
to the right or to the left, — into 
“ dit-elie ” and dit-il and u je disais” 
— “ says he ” and “ says she ” and 
“ says I.” He seemed to know that 
with all her tackings, even if she 
“ missed stays ” sometimes, she 
would come by her own course best 
to her voyage’s end. 

It was not till this whole story 
was over that he asked to see the 
diet-drink, as Madame called it, 
which had worked all this misery. 
But at that moment, his poor patient 
started in another spasm of these 
terrible convulsions. 

Then was it that the balance and 
steadiness of the “prophet” showed 
itself as it had not shown itself till 
now. He seemed to control even 
her almost by a word, as none of the 
chattering or beseeching of those 
whom he had sent away had done. 
When he held her, he held her in- 
deed, so that she did not even strug- 
gle against his grasp ; when he bade 


her open her mouth to swallow the' 
sedative which the black brought 
him at his direction, the poor delir- 
ious child obeyed him as she would 
obey a God ; and under such con- 
trol the crisis passed, her mother 
said, much more easily and quickly 
than that of half an hour before ; 
Still there was the same bloody froth 
upon her lips and nostrils, there was- 
the same deadly pallor as of a corpse ; 
and the haggard aspect which came at 
once over the face seemed to Madame" 
Gabrielle and her two waiting wo- 
men more terrible than ever. The 
Florentine noted the pulse again, as 
the exhausted child sank back, and 
counted the rapidity of her breath- 
ing. Then for the first time he began* 
his examination of the poison. 

He tasted it, once and again, as 
fearlessly as if it had been water' 
or wine. If he were puzzled, or if 
he were distressed by what he learned,-- 
he did not show it in any glance of 
those black eyes, or in the least 
change of any other feature. lie" 
turned to Madame Gabrielle again 
to ask her when it was brewed, and 
where she had obtained the materials.- 

The answer was as voluble as be- 
fore, and was not, alas, very helpful. 
The good dame’s custom, for years' 
upon years, — ever since she was a 
married woman indeed, — had beei* 
to go on St. John’s Day and on St* 
Margaret’s Day and on the Eve of 
the Assumption and on Halloween, 
to collect the various ingredients 
which were necessary for the dif- 
ferent home medicines of a household 
so large as hers. Rosemary, wild 
lavender, Mary’s lavender, tansey, 
rue, herb-saffron, herb-dittany, mo- 
therwort, spearwort, maid’s wort, 
and St. John’s wort, herb of heaven, 
herb of winter, poison-kill, and fever- 
few, she named them all glibly. An I 


12 


In His Name . 


if the expert shuddered within as he 
thought of the principles which were 
hidden under these names, repeated 
so recklessly by an ignorant w'oman, 
he did not show his anger or vexa- 
tion. And this year, as usual, she 
said she had gone out on the Eve of 
St. John’s day, — surely he knew 
that speanvort and herb-of-heaven 
and herb-dittany -were never so 
strong as when you gathered them on 
the Eve of St. John’s Day, if the 
moon were at the full, — and again 
she went out, with the two bay horses 
on the St. Margaret’s Day at e’en, and 
•came back with three large baskets 
full of simples. So she did on As- 
sumption Eve. But when it came to 
Halloween she confessed that she 
was kept at home, watching the con- 
servation of some peaches. The ac- 
cident — for accident of course there 
was — must have happened then. 
She had sent out Goodwife Prudhon, 
who certainly ought to know. If any 
one knew anything about the simples 
of the valley, it was Goodwife Prud- 
hon. It was she who brought in the 
bark and the roots of the autumn, 
which the dame herself had not 
collected. And for the brewing it- 
self — O ! that was on St. Elizabeth’s 
Day and St. Cecile’s Day. The pos- 
set indeed was mixed of decoctions 
which were not six weeks old. 

Could she bring him any of the 
roots or bark which Madame Prud- 
hon brought her, or had she used 
them all? 

O ! Madame Gabrielle was quite 
sure she had not used them all ; and 
she retired, to search for what might 
be left, to her own sanctuary, not 
sorry, perhaps, thus to avoid for the 
moment the presence of her wretched 
husband. He had been sent away 
from the room on some errand which 
bad been made for him by the in- 


genuity of the Florentine, and it 
was only at this moment that he 
returned. 

So in poor Felicie’s next paroxysm 
of convulsions it was Jean Waldo 
who obeyed the Florentine’s orders. 
And in that crisis the Florentine took 
his measure also, and learned w’hat 
manner of man he was. The father 
was as firm as the physician. He 
knew his place too, and he obeyed 
every direction to a letter. It was 
piteous to see how he sought for a 
recognition from his daughter, which 
she "would not give. But whether 
he hoped or despaired, the poor man 
could obey. He brought what the 
Florentine bade him bring. He stood 
where he bade him stand. With a 
hand as firm as the physician’s, he 
dropped the drops of the sedative 
from the silver flask in which it was 
kept. And with a hand and arm as 
steady, he supported the pillow on 
which she was to fall back after she 
had taken it. The paroxy-sm was 
shorter and less vehement than those 
before it. But it seemed to be 
checked, rather from the exhaustion 
of the patient, than from any relax- 
ation of the disease. Jean Waldo 
himself knew that flesh and blood 
could not long abide racking so ter- 
rible. 

As she sank back to rest, the Flor- 
entine counted her pulsations and 
the rate of her breathing as carefully 
as he did before. He took from his 
pocket a silver ball, opened it by a 
screw, and drew from the interior a 
long silken cord, one end of which 
was attached to it. At the other end 
was a small silver hook, and this the 
Florentine fastened high in the cur- 
tains of the room opposite to where 
he was sitting. He had thus made a 
pendulum, several ells in length, 
and he set it to swinging solemnly. 


In His Name . 


13 


He returned to the child’s bedside, 
and with his hand upon her heart 
noted the wiry, stubborn pulsations, 
and compared their number with the 
vibrations of the ball he had set in 
motion. Once and again he bade 
Jean Waldo strike the ball for him, 
when its original motion was in part 
exhausted. 

While they were thus occupied, 
poor Madame Gabrielle, the guilty or 
guiltless author of so much wretch- 
edness, returned. Her apron was full 
of herbs, barks, powders, and roots, 
tied up in separate parcels, and each 
parcel carefully labelled. The Flor- 
entine took them, one by one, tasted 
each, and made a note of the name 
of each, the blackamoor holding his 
inkhorn for him that he might do so. 
The mother by this time was awed 
into silence, and never spoke till she 
was spoken to ; but when she was 
asked, she was confident in her re- 
plies. They were able without the least 
doubt to lay out upon the table the 
bark, the two parcels of leaves, and 
the white roots which had been 
steeped and soaked, boiled and 
brewed, in the preparation of the 
“ diet-drink.” 

As if he had to adjust his speaking 
apparatus with a little “ click,” or as 
if he disliked to speak at all, the 
Florentine said to the father and the 
mother, “ Here was the good-wife 
Prudhon’s blunder. She thought 
that she had here the root of Spanish 
maiden-wort. She did not see the 
leaves ; I suppose they had dried up 
and were gone. But it is the root 
of hemlock-leaved oenanthe, what 
the peasants call snake-bane. Juba, 
bring me the parcel of oenanthe.” 
He showed to the father and mother 
that good-wife Prud lion’s maiden- wort 
was, in fact, the most dreaded poison 
in his repertory. 


“And is there no antidote?” 
asked the father, so eagerly ! 

“ The antidot e,” said the physician, 
kindly, “ is to do what your wife has 
tried to do, — to throw out from the 
dear child’s body what by such mis- 
fortune has been put in.” And he said 
one word to comfort the poor blun- 
derer. “ Well for her that she was 
at home, and that her mother was at 
hand.” Then he added reverently y 
u God only knows how much is left 
in her stomach of this decoction \ 
but she drank enough of it to have 
killed us all, had not her mother’s 
promptness compelled her stomach 
to throw off the most part of the 
poison.” 

And this was all that he seemed 
disposed to say. The father and the 
mother were both in too much awe of 
him to dare to question him. With the 
lapse of every half-hour he would bid 
one or the other of them set his silver 
pendulum in motion, and he would 
note carefully the pulse of the girl, 
entering on his note-book a mem- 
orandum of his observation. But 
neither Jean Waldo nor his wife 
dared ask if there were improvement 
or decline. He renewed from time 
to time the applications which had 
been made to the child’s feet and 
legs and stomach. From time to 
time she started again in the terrible 
convulsions. But these were shorter 
and shorter, and more and more in- 
frequent, either from the power of 
his medicines, or from some change 
in the action of the poison. Jean 
Waldo thought that the physician 
regarded the reaction from the par- 
oxysm as more alarming than the 
struggle itself. But who could tell 
what that man of iron thought, or did 
not think ; felt, or did not feel? The 
poor father knew that very probably 
he was but imagining that the Flor- 


14 


In His Name. 


« entitle showed his own anxieties. 
And who was he to ask him? 

At midnight the girl started np 
in one of these spasms of agony; 
and at this time she spoke with more 
-connection of ideas than any of them 
had been able to trace before : “ This 
way ! this way ! Gabrielle, dear 
Gabrielle, do you not hear me, my 
■child ? It is Felicie, — your own pet, 
Gabrielle ! Never fear ! never fear ! 
I have spoken to Our Mother, to Our 
Lady, you know ! That is brave — my 
■own little cousin, that is brave. Care ! 
Care ! See that heavy timber ! O 
how good ! O how good ! She is 
■quite right, quite right. All safe, all 
safe, all safe.” And as she sighed 
out these words, she rested from the 
most violent and passionate exertion, 
as if she had been hard at work in 
.some effort, which the Florentine did 
not in the least understand. 

It was the first time that he ever 
-seemed to make any inquiry regard- 
ing her symptoms, and he looked his 
.curiosity rather than expressed it. 
Madame Waldo was relieved at hav- 
ing a fair opportunity to speak. 
“ Gabrielle is her cousin, my sister 
Margaret’s oldest daughter, if you 
please. F elicie is fond — O so fond — 
of Gabrielle. And she thinks Ga- 
brielle is in danger, O yes ! O yes ! 
See, she thinks the bridge is breaking, 
.and that Gabrielle is in the water. 
Your reverence remembers, perhaps, 
that the Holy Mother saved Gabrielle 
imd so many more when the bridge 
went down.” But by this time the 
physician, only bowing civilly as he 
acknowledged her voluble explana- 
tions, was counting the pulse-beats 
again, and by a motion directed Jean 
Waldo to renew the vibration of the 
pendulum. 

Was he perhaps a little more satis- 
fied with his count and comparison 


than he had been before ? Who can 
tell ? for none of the four attendants in 
the darkened room dared to ask him. 

And then he sent Jean W aldo away. 
The wretched father begged that he 
might stay, but the Florentine was 
as flint. Madame Gabrielle and one 
of her maids would give him all the 
assistance he wanted besides what his 
own man could render him, and more. 
Indeed, he would send her away also, 
he said, in an aside, but that he knew 
it would kill her to go. At last he 
pitied the poor beseeching father so 
much that he promised to let him 
come in, an hour before day-break, and 
take his wife’s place at the bedside of 
his child. Jean Waldo went because 
he was bidden. Ilis strong, selfish 
will gave way before the strong, un- 
selfish will of this stranger. Prophet 
indeed ! This prophet worked the 
miracle of commanding Jean Waldo, 
and he saw that he obeyed him. 

Long before it was light, however, 
the heart-broken father, who had 
slept not a wink in the dreary hours 
between, came to claim the right 
of taking bis turn. And now he 
and the Florentine sent Madame Ga- 
brielle away, weak as she now was 
from her wretchedness and her watch- 
ing and her anxiety. Yes 1 The 
night had given but little of en- 
couragement. The paroxysms of 
convulsion were, it is true, more and 
more seldom ; but the prostration 
after them was more and more ter- 
rible. It seemed too clear now to the 
mother that the child was too weak 
for nature to rally from the strug- 
gle of the paroxysm. Nor did she 
in the least regain her consciousness. 
The black features and strange look 
of the servant did not surprise her, 
nor did her mother’s familiar face call 
the least look of recognition. In the 
intervals of rest, her rest was abso- 


In His Name . 


15 


lute. She saw nothing, said nothing, 
and seemed to hear nothing then, 
j When she roused to these horrid bat- 
tles the delusion was now one thing 
and now another. She saw the sink- 
ing bridge, or she was talking to some 
lame beggar woman, so fast that 
they could hardly catch her words, 
or she was throwing kisses and wav- 
ing her hand to her dear mountain 
far away, or she was running down 
the side of the Hill of Fourvieres 
that she might be sure to arrive at 
home in time to meet her father when 
she came down to supper. In these 
delusions the wise physician humored 

I her. But she seemed to have no 
knowledge of him nor of any of them, 
nor any consciousness of their pres- 
ence. The phantoms before her were 
all she saw or heard. And they 
vanished as strangely and as sud- 
denly as they came. In the midst of 
one of these quick harangues to them, 
she would sink back on the pillow, 
which the black held ready for her, as 
if she were too completely exhausted 
and prostrate with the exertion to 
utter another syllable. 

It was just after one of these vis- 
ions, and the paroxysm accompany- 
ing it, that Jean Waldo returned, 
and that his wife was sent away. 
It seemed that the resolute man had 
been nursing resolution in his night- 
watch in the passage-way, and that 
he was resolved to know the best or 
the worst ; that he would command 
the young man to tell him all that 
he could tell him. He set the pendu- 
lum in motion as he was bidden ; 
he filled with hotter w T ater a jar for 
the child’s feet to rest upon, and ex- 
changed for it that which was on the 
bed ; he spread the napkin at her 
mouth, as the Florentine fed her from 
an elixir, which, as Jean Waldo saw, 
was not the same which they used at 


midnight. Then when she rested 
and all was still, he said, firmly, — 

u Tell me the worst, sir. Is the 
child dying or living? I am not a 
fool.” 

The Florentine looked up and said, 
after the moment of preparation, 
“ If I thought yo u were a fool, you 
would not be in the room with my 
patient. You know all that I know, 
because you have eyes to see. These 
paroxysms of agony are less frequent. 
The last interval was nearly twice as 
long as the first was, I should think. 
She is wholly free from pain too, and 
her pulse, though it beats so quick, 
beats with a more reasonable edge 
than when I came in. But her 
strength is. failing all the same. 
Her breath is quicker ; and if the in- 
terval is longer, it is because nerve 
and muscle and life, whatever that is, 
cannot rally to the struggle as they 
did in the evening. She is at the, 
omnipotent age, anti her life has been 
strong and pure as an angel’s. Were 
it not for that she would have been 
dead before now. ” And the silent 
man paused, but paused as if he 
would like to say something more. 

For this “ something more ” the 
distressed father waited ; he thought 
he waited an eternity, but it did not 
come. “ Can you not say any thing 
more?” he said, miserably. “ What 
is it that we are doing? What are 
these elixirs and tisans ? Is not 
there somewhere in God’s world, 
some potion — do you not call it an 
antidote — which will put out this 
poison as water puts out fire ? ” 

“ Is there not ? Is there ? ” said the 
Florentine, setting the click of his 
talking apparatus more resolutely if 
possible than before. “If there is, 
the wit of man has not discovered it 
How should it? The water which 
puts out the fire is the same water 


1G 


In His Name. 


which drowns the sailor. For aught 
you and I can tell, this root, of which 
the decoction seemed liquid flame 
when your daughter drank it, may 
give life itself to some fish or beast 
or bird for which the good God 
made it. All that we do, my friend,” 
— it was the first time he had used 
those words in that house, — “all 
that we do is to undo what we did 
wrong before. We have tried to rid 
her system of this wretched decoc- 
tion, and now we are trying to give 
time, whatever that is ; and nature, 
whatever that is ; and life, whatever 
that is, — the chance to do their per- 
fect work. We can do nothing more. 
The good God wishes and means 
to save health and strength and joy 
and abundant life. So much we 
know ; and knowing that, in the 
strength and life of a pure child of 
His, like this girl, we hope, and have 
a right to hope.” 

“ Is this all ?” said the father sadly, 
after another pause, in which he 
thought the Florentine wanted to say 
more. “Is this all? What is the 
tisan, what is the mustard on her 
stomach, what is the rubbing, what 
is the hot water at her feet, what is 
the elixir in your phial ? ” 

“ Ah well ! ” replied the expert, 
after a longer pause than usual per- 
haps, in what seemed like the ad- 
justment of his machinery; “what 
is it indeed? It is our poor effort, to 
quicken and help from the outside 
the processes of this nature which is 
so mysterious in the beautiful ma- 
chine. The hot water at her feet keeps 
them more near to the warmth which 
nature gives. My master taught me 
that when the foot and arm and leg 
are fully warm, each movement of 
the heart drove easily a tide of the 
blood of life itself through them all. 
You can see that the warmth of the 


jar should make that process easier 
for this poor heart which finds its 
work so hard. Ah well ! it seems as if 
we helped it more by the friction of 
these cloths, so long as we do not an- 
noy her by it, and as if these sina- 
pisms wrought in the same way. We 
think we know that within her system 
tinctures which we have tried give 
the same help to a life which is too- 
weak. Perhaps they enable some part 
of her nervous system which the poi- 
son has not reached to act for the good 
of the part that it first affected.” 

Then the talking apparatus seemed 
to fail the expert. He opened his 
mouth once and again ; he then said 
“I” once or twice, but seemed to* 
reconsider his determination, and to 
determine that he would add nothing 
more. 

“ But we are so well, and she is so 
faint there. Is it not strange that I 
cannot give her of this fresh blood of 
mine, or from my life, five years, ten r 
twenty? I would give them gladly.” 

“ Ah, my friend,” said the expert,, 
without a moment’s pause this time ; 
“do not speak as if we gave anything 
or did anything. It is God gives, 
and God who takes. All that you 
and I can do is so to adjust and so 
to relieve, and perhaps so to help, 
this poor frail machine, that the 
breath of life God gave it may be 
able to work His work. You would 
give your life for hers, I do not doubt 
it. For one, I would have given my 
life once for the brother who was- 
dearest to me. My master opened 
the vein which you see scarred here, 
and with a silver tube he drew the 
healthy, fresh blood from my young 
life into the failing veins of his 
ebbing life. But it could not be, my 
friend,” he added, after another long 
pause. “ His life was his, and mine 
was mine. Perhaps in another world 


In His Name. 


17 


our lives may be closer, and we may 
be made perfect in one.” It seemed 
as if this confidence with the father 
broke some spell which had been on 
the adept’s tongue before. He sat 
still for a few minutes, with his hand 
upon the girl’s heart, then rose and 
went round the bed, and at her back 
listened for her breath, and felt again 
the heat of his water jugs. Then as 
he resumed his seat, he said, half 
aloud : — 

“ 1 wish my master were here ! ” It 
was the first wish he had expressed, 
the first intimation that he and his 
horrid blackamoor and the great 
hamper could not produce everything 
which human wit could suggest in the 
exigency. 

Jean Waldo jumped eagerly at the 
suggestion. 

“ Your master? Who is he, where 
is he ? Let me send, let me go, let me 
beg him to come. Will money buy 
him ? Here is enough of that ! What 
are gold and silver to me, if this 
child die?” 

“ Has not this night taught you, sir, 
that life is something that men can- 
not buy or sell?” The adept spake 
if possible more proudly than ever. 
“ Know, sir, the reason why my mas- 
ter was not first at this child’s bed- 
stead, with all his skill and tenderness 
and experience. It is because he 
cared for the Poor Men of Lyons, 
more than the Rich men of Lyons.” 

Then there came one of those queer 
clicks in his talking machinery, as if 
he were too indignant to say more. 
But he went on : — 

“ Your priests yonder, with their 
bells and their masses, and their 
feasts inside their convents ; your 
famous chapter and your famous ab- 
bot could not bear to have the ‘ Poor 
Men of Lj'ons ’ fed or taught, and so 
they drove my master away, and your 


kinsman awaj r , and you know how 
many others. Men say and I believe 
that it was because these men knew 
Holy .Scripture better than they knew 
it, and because they loved the poor 
better than they loved them. This 
is certain, that these men went about 
doing good, that they fed the hungry 
and gave drink to the thirsty, they 
took the stranger into their homes 
and they ministered to the sick and 
those that were in prison, they brought 
glad tidings to the poor and comfort 
to those in sorrow. I do not know 
much of Holy Scripture, but I always 
supposed that this was the Pure Gos- 
pel. It was not pure enough for 
your priests, and so the liege lords 
of Lyons drove those men away. 
That is the reason why my master is 
not at your daughter’s bedside.” 

The young physician stopped short, 
as if he had let his indignation run 
further than was wise. A wretched 
feeling, a sickness at heart swept 
over Jean Waldo, when he remem- 
bered how often he had said to these 
men who were in exile with his kins- 
man, that they would have been wiser 
to have minded their own business. 
Of his kinsman himself he had said, 
once and again, “If he would only 
mind his own concerns, all would be 
well.” Now Jean Waldo began to 
see that he did want some one to 
take care of him and his, and that this 
grand selfishness of his was only 
fitted for the times of high prosper- 
ity. 

“ Is your master beyond all re- 
call?” he said, a dim notion cross- 
ing his mind that he had heard some 
of the rich burghers say that the 
“ Poor Men of Lyons ” were hiding 
in the-mountains. 

“ I have not seen my master there,” 
replied the Florentine, thoughtfully 
“ His home is in the Brevon caves, 


13 


In His Name. 


among men who have never betrayed 
him, beyond Cornillon and St. Ram- 
bert” 

“ St. Rambert,” said the father, 
eagerly, — 64 St. Rambert, — it is close 
to us, a miserable six hours away. 
I have horses in these stables that 
would take me there in six hours.” 

The adept looked uneasily at the 
child, when her father spoke of six 
hours, as if he would say, “ And 
where will she be when six hours 
only are gone ? ” But he did not say 
this. He said, “ My master is not 
at Cornillon, he is in the valley of 
the Brevon beyond. Still, as you 
say, that is not so far away.” 

“• Send for him ! send for him ! ” 
cried the father ; “ send for him if 
you have one ray of hope ! ” And 
the eagerness both of his attitude 
and his voice would have moved a 
harder listener than the Florentine. 
It seemed as if the child herself was 
conscious of what passed. She 
moved her head a little on the pillow 
and a sunny smile floated over her 
face, the first expression except that 
of agony or anxiety which the adept 
had seen there. 

“ If you will send, I will write,” 
said the adept ; and he whispered to 
the black, who brought to him from 
a case in the hamper a strip of vel- 
lum already folded for a letter. 

“ Have you a trusty man whom 
you can send with this ? Bid your 
grooms saddle the horse, — and he 
needs to be your best, — while I am 
writing. 

Jean Waldo asked nothing more 
but to be doing something, and at 
the word left the room. 

The Florentine wrote : — 

“Here is a child dying because she has 
drunk a decoction of hemlock-leaved 
oenanthe. I think there was also the 
milky blush mushroom or the Picardy 


peaussiere in the decoction. Come if* 
you can help us. 

For the love of Christ. 

Giulio.” 

And in the middle, at the bot- j| 
tom, he drew with some little care j 
the symbol known as the Cross of j 
Malta. 



He added, “We have no moment 
to lose. Before day-break of St. 
Ives.” 

Meanwhile the father had hurried 
down the dark passages, out into the 
court-yard, past the workshops to the 
room where Hugh Prinhac, the most 
resolute of the weavers, slept ; a man 
who in street fights had again and 
again led the weavers’ apprentices in 
their victories over the dyers. 

He knocked at the door, and 
knocked again and again till he heard 
a motion within. To a gruff u Who ’s 
there ? ” he gave his name in reply ; 
and in an instant the astonished 
journeyman threw the door open for 
his master. 

“ Prinhac, my daughter is dying. 
The only man that can save her is 
this Italian, who is only five hours 
away. Prinhac, as you love me, take 
this parchment, and bring him.” 

Prinhac was but half awake per 
haps. The enterprise was not at 
tractive, nor did it seem as if his 
employer counted very wisely when 
he relied on such love as the weaver 


In His Name . 


19 


bore him. Prinhac asked some hes- 
itating question. 

“ For the love of Christ, do not 
stay to argue,” said the poor old 
man. 

Without knowing it, he struck a 
chord in using the sacred words, and 
' in an instant the weaver was ready 


for any duty. “Who stays to 
argue ?” said he. “ Do you see that 
your black stallion is saddled, and 
by the time the horse is here, I 
will be ready to mount. Love of 
Christ indeed ! And who says I 
tarry when I am invoked in his 
name? ” 


CHAPTER IV. 

UP TO THE HILLS. 


Sure enough, the weaver stood on 
the step of the door, booted and 
spurred, when the trembling old man 
appeared with his lantern leading out 
Barbe-Noire from the low gateway of 
the mews. It was long since Jean 
Waldo had saddled and bridled a horse 
for himself, but he had not forgot- 
ten the arts of his boyhood, and 
the Arab needed no care because his 
master was his groom. At the same 
moment Giulio the Florentine ap- 
peared from above, and as Prinhac 
mounted promptly, Giulio put his 
hand over the mane of the horse, and 
almost in a whisper, though they 
three were all alone in the night, 
he gave the young fellow precise di- 
rections where and how Lugio was to 
be found. Prinhac bent in the sad- 
dle, listened carefully, and repeated 
the directions to be sure that he had 
not mistaken them. 

“ Never fear me, then !” he said, 
spurred his horse, and was away. 

“ He must cross the bridge before 
sundown,” cried poor Jean Waldo 
to the rider, himself startled as he 
remembered how narrow was the 
range thus given. 

“ Never fear,” was still the cheer- 
ful answer, and Prinhac disappeared 
into the night. 

The ride across the narrow penin- 


sula which parts the Saone from the 
Rhone, and is to-day covered by the 
most beautiful part of the city of 
Lyons, took but a few minutes, — 
and the rider was soon at the long, 
narrow bridge over the larger river N 
which had been temporarily con- 
structed, by the direction of Richard 
of the Lion Heart, after the ruin 
of the year before. “The old man 
bids us return before sunset. He 
has forgotten that I have started be- 
fore sunrise.” This was the thought 
which amused Prinhac so that even 
a smile curled over his hard face as 
he rode up to the gateway of the 
bridge. 

The truth was, that no passage was 
permitted before sunrise, under the 
sharp orders of the Viguier. But 
many things were done in the priest- 
governed city of Lyons, which neither 
Viguiers nor Seneschals nor Couriers 
nor the Chapter nor the Bishop sus- 
spected. And this the reader will 
see. 

“ Hola! Who commands tne 
guard ? ” cried Prinhac. “ Turn out ! 
Turn out ! Is this the way our bridges 
are watched ? ” 

A sleepy sentinel appeared. 

“ Hola ! who commands the guard?” 
cried the fearless weaver again. 

“And what is that to you?” re- 


20 


In Ills Name. 


plied the sentinel, throwing his hal- 
berd forward in carte. “If you see 
the guard, it ought to be enough for 
you.” 

Prinhac did not stop to argue. But 
the sentinel, as he watched him in 
the dim lantern-light, saw that he 
made in the air the sign of a Maltese 
Cross, and heard him say, in a low 
whisper, “ Send me the officer of the 
guard 

In IIis Name.” 

Sign and whisper were enough. 
The sentry threw up his halberd in a 
military salute and was gone. Nor 
did the rider wait a minute in the 
cold, before the officer of the guard, 
fully dressed in armor, passed out 
from the gateway and saluted. 

“ Can you let me pass, Mr. Offi- 
cer ? ” said Prinhac, quietly and mod- 
estly this time. “It is for the Love 
of Christ that I am riding.” 

“ Go — 

In His Name,” 

Was the only reply made to the wea- 
ver. The officer turned, passed into 
the guard-house, and, as if by invis- 
ible hand, the portcullis rose before 
Prinhac, the only bar to his passage, 
and in a moment he was on the 
bridge. The grate fell behind him, 
and he was again alone. 

“And how would my master have 
passed there ? ” he said to himself, 
half aloud. And the same grim 
smile crept over his face, — “he 
should have asked his friend the 
Bishop, or our distinguished boon 
companion the Seneschal, to give him 
a pass that he might send into the 
mountains for the doctor they have 
driven away.” And then aloud, “ Hist, 
hist, Barbe-Noire ! You are not at 
Chateaudun ; this is no race-course. 
You shall have running enough be- 


fore to-day is over. But in the dark, 
over these rotten boats, you must 
step more carefully, my beauty.” 

And so the rough fellow began 
musing on the strange chance which 
had put him astride this horse, which, 
in the judgment of weavers, spin- 
ners, fullers, and dyers, of the whole 
of the little community indeed which 
found its centre in Jean Waldo’s 
court-yard, — was by far the noblest 
horse in Lyons. Nor were they far 
from right in their judgment. The 
noble creature had first appeared 
there when Jean Waldo rode him 
back from a long absence in Mar- 
seilles. What price he had paid, or 
what debts he had forgiven for him, 
no man in the workshops knew. But 
there were rumors as to the wild life 
of the merchant who had been his 
last owner, and of fight with the 
Barbary corsair who had been his 
master before. How these things 
might be, Prinhac did not know. He 
did know that any groom who was 
permitted to cross Barbe-Noire’s sad- 
dle for an hour, would brag for a 
week of that honor, and that, for his 
own part, he might the morning be- 
fore as well have wished for the 
crown of Burgundy, as to have wished 
for the permission to ride Barbe- 
Noire for a day. 

And so the weaver was led on, as 
the horse took surer foothold on the 
causeway, to ask himself why his 
master chose him from all workmen 
for this mission Lucky for Jean 
Waldo, the man thought it, that he 
chose as he did. “ Which of them 
would have seen that portcullis rise, 
as I did ? ” Ah, Prinhac, Prinhac ! 
perhaps more of them have the talis- 
man than you think for ! 

The truth was that when the Bishop 
John Fine-House, — Jean des Belles 
Maisons, as some of the archives call 


In His Name, 


21 


him, — when John Fine-House, I say, 
or John Fine Hands, as others call 
him, chose to banish Peter Waldo 
and the “ Poor Men of Lyons ” from 
his city, he strained his new-bought 
authority more harshly than he knew. 
When the Archbishop and Chapter 
had refused to the Poor Men of 
Lyons the right to assemble in the 
public places, or indeed anywhere, 
to read the gospels, they had them- 
selves possessed for only six years 
what they had long wished for, the 
temporal government of the city and 
outlying country. Before the Pope 
of Rome had any such power in 
Rome, the Archbishop of Lyons was 
as good as an independent Prince in 
Lyons. In 1173 the Count of Forez 
and his son had sold out all their 
rights there, in exchange for some 
lands owned by the Chapter, and 
eleven hundred marks of money. 
The rulers of Burgundy had too lit- 
tle to do with such u Counties’’ to 
interfere, and practically the Arch- 
bishop found himself a sovereign 
prince. The town of Lyons became 
his fief, and all the administration 
was in his name. 

One of his first acts had been the 
prohibition of this nonsense about 
gospels and charity and good works, 
— about translating the Scriptures, 
and assemblies of the people to be 
addressed by laymen. “ No Houses 
of Bread nor Houses of God, except 
such as the Chapter builds !” And 
one of his first victories was that 
which he won over Pierre Waldo 
when he excommunicated him and 
his, and when the Pope confirmed 
the excommunication. For, only six 
years before, just as Fine-House was 
buying his fief, Pope Alexander 
had embraced this barefoot beggar, 
and had approved his life of volun- 
tary poverty. 


But it was one thing to drive the 
merchant-preacher and his friends 
out of Lyons, and another to make 
the people forget them. There were 
too many who had been fed by 
their bounty, comforted by their sym- 
pathy, and taught by their zeal, who 
were too insignificant for exile, but 
were too grateful to forget. The 
weaver Prinhac was one of these ; 
and by the secret signals which they 
had established among themselves, he 
knew that many of the men-at-arms 
of the Chapter thought as he thought 
and felt as he felt. It was his 
confidence in their help which had 
brought him out over the bridge so 
easily. 

But in truth Jean W aldo had chosen 
him only because he had seen that he 
was quick as a flash and faltered at 
nothing. It had been, alas, not from 
any deep religious feeling, but from 
the agony of despair, that Jean Wal- 
do had summoned the young athlete 
to rise, “ for the love of Christ.” The 
man had replied to the summons so 
fortunately made, with the reply 
which, to one initiated into the mys- 
teries of these ‘‘poor men,” would 
have shown that he was one who was 
loyally tied to the teachers and friends 
who had done so much for Lyons, and 
were exiled from their homes. But 
Jean Waldo was not initiated, and 
he had no suspicion that he had made 
a choice so happy as he had when he 
sent Prinhac upon his errand. 

Prinhac and Barbe-Noire crossed 
the causeway more slowly than either 
of them liked, but as fast as the rider 
dared to go over an ic}' road in the 
darkness. As day began to break at 
last, they came to a point for which 
Giulio’s directions had not prepared 
him. He had crossed the river again. 
The valley road, which in our time 
is the road always travelled, was 


22 


In His Name. 


but a half-broken way, little better 
than a foot-path. The beaten track 
turned to the left and boldly pushed 
up the steep hill. The foot-path 
was stolen from the edge of the 
hill, which here crowds close upon 
the Rhone. Still, though it was nar- 
row, and though, clearly enough, a 
block of ice from the river or of rock 
from the cliff might easily make it 
impassable, it was so much more level 
and so much more direct than the 
hill road, that Prinhac would have 
been glad to choose it. But he did 
not dare, without better authority 
than his own guess or wish. 

A miserable turf hovel stood some 
hundred yards back from the way he 
had been following, on a steep slope 
of the hill. Unwilling to lose an 
instant, the young man still forced 
Barbe-Noire, who seemed as unwil- 
ling as himself, across the little tur- 
nip-patch, and bringing the horse 
close to the very door itself, knocked 
loud enough to waken Ogier the 
Dane. 

No answer. 

Prinhac knocked again and again. 
It was no deserted hovel, he knew 
that ; and he meant that no one there 
should sleep later that morning. 

To the fourth knock, the squeak- 
ing voice of an old woman answered : 
“ Who is there?” 

“ O,” said the rider, laughing, “ you 
have turned over in the bed, have 
you? I am a courier from Lyons, 
and I want to know which is my best 
way to Meximieux.” 

“ Both are the best — both are the 
best. Go your way, and do not be 
waking honest people at midnight ! ” 

Prinhac had played on a word in 
calling himself a courier. A courier 
was indeed a carrier of messages, 
and it was true that he was canying 
a message ; but in the phrase of the 


time, a “courier” in Lyons corres- 
ponded to what we now call a prose- 
cuting attorney, and Prinhac had had 
the hope that he might frighten the 
old crone into an answer. But he 
reckoned quite without his host. The 
truth was, that she did not know the 
word in either of its meanings. She 
only guessed that here was some roys- 
terer who was to be kept at bay, and 
answered as best she could, with the 
object of getting rid of him. 

Prinhac waited a moment, but found 
he was to get no other answer. He 
knocked again and again, but there 
was no answer. It was half uncon- 
sciously that he said then, in no loud 
tone, “ For the love of Christ, will 
no one show me the way ? ” 

And the answer was as prompt as 
his own had been to Jean Waldo. 
The shutter of the hovel was thrown 
open wide. A man thrust half his 
body out from the window. 

“ Who pleads the love of Christ? 
If you have all day before you, take 
the valley ; but you take the chances 
of having to return If your errand 
is haste, take the hill road. Trust 
me, for I speak it 

In His Name.” 

The rider nodded, made the Cross 
of Malta in the air, pushed his 
horse down to the roadway again, 
and began the tedious ascent of the 
hill. 

As he rose from the fog of the val- 
ley, he turned uneasily in his saddle 
and looked back once and again to 
be sure what was the prospect of the 
weather now sunrise drew near. For 
if this day were to be stormy, if 
the hill paths were to be blocked or 
obscured by never so little freshly- 
fallen snow, little hope was there 
that the priest-doctor for whom he 
was sent would ever see little Felicia 


In His Name. 


23 


alive. Prinhac was of a hopeful 
moocl. But he found it hard to read 
the signs of the times in that early 
morning, hard indeed to persuade 
himself that the rifted clouds which 
were beginning to catch their glory 
of purple and gold from the sun still 
concealed, were only to be painted 
clouds that day, and that there 
was no malice behind them. “ The 
mountain will tell me,” said Prinhac. 
“ If, when I have passed the castle 
gate, I see the white mountain, I will 
lay a wager on the day ; but if there 
are as heavy clouds before me as 
there are behind, it must go hard with 
poor Mademoiselle Felicie.” 

And they toiled up the broken 
hill, Prinhac and the horse. Prinhac 
was not too lazy nor too proud to 
save his horse, even at this early 
hour, as best he might. At the 
heaviest ascent, he was off the sad- 
dle and walked by the noble crea- 
ture’s side, only playing with the 
thick and heavy black mane, which 
had given to him his name. Then, 
without waiting for stirrups, he was 
on his back again, and he indulged 
Barbe-Noire in a little gallop as they 
crossed the flat which is commanded 
by the castle. 

The heavy square tower of the castle 
seemed completely to block the way. 
But Prinhac advanced, nothing falter- 
ing, — rode close along the wall, 
turned it, and opened on a vision of 
wonder such as he never looked upon 
before. 

The hill which he had been mount- 
ing commands from its highest ridge 
a marvellous view of the valley of the 
Rhone. Far beneath him lay the 
winding course of the river, flowing 
between fields which were this morn- 
ing white with hoar-frost. The blue 
of the Rhone and the white of the 
frost both revealed themselves to 


him through the exquisite purple 
mist which even at this hour was be- 
ginning to rise from the meadows. 
Like islands through this mist, Prin- 
hac could see one and another village, 
— here a tower, and there a square 
castle, — he could see the spires of 
Lhuis and St. Laurent, and far away 
Arandon. But he did not pause to 
look or to wonder. He pressed his 
horse to the point where the prospect 
opens most to the eastward, and 
there, against the purple and the 
gold of the sunrise, — the sun him- 
self not having struggled yet above 
the mountains, — there he saw the 
monarch of them all, tying purple- 
gray against this blazing background, 
without one fillet of cloud across his 
face, nor a wreath of mist rising from 
his valleys. 

The weaver accepted the signal he 
had been longing for. “Ah, Mon- 
sieur Mont Blanc ! ” he said aloud,. 
“ you are a good friend to my Mis- 
tress Felicie this day.” 

How little the good fellow thought 
that as lately as sunset on the even- 
ing before, his young “ mistress ” had 
been throwing her kisses from the 
hill of Fourvieres over to her “ dear 
old friend.” 

And now he and Barbe-Noire were 
fairly in for their work. More than 
two hours had passed since he crept 
out of Lyons in the darkness, and 
daylight must make up for the time 
which had been lost in the creeping. 
Barbe-Noire was as glad as he for 
the right to take a quicker pace,— 
and now began the real triumph of 
blood and good temper and good 
breeding. It w r as not long that the 
road held the high ground. As the 
sun at last rose glorious behind the 
Alps themselves and the thousand 
ranges of castellated mountains which 
lay against the heavy line of the Alps, 


24 


In His Name. 


the descent into the valley again 
began. The rider looked his last on 
Felicie’s old friend, and let his faith- 
ful horse take as fast a pace as he 
dared in the descent. Once on the 
flats again, their pace was like flying. 
The country children on their way to 
morning mass looked with wonder, 
and indeed with terror, as they saw 
this coal-black horse, with nostrils 
open and eyes of fire, dash by them. 
The rider was no knight, they could 
see that. But not even when the 
knights from Burgundy came through 
to join in the crusade had these chil- 
dren seen such a horse or such a 
rider. So Prinhac passed village after 
village, group after group of church- 
goers, and began to feel that his work 
was more certain of success than he 
had feared, and that he should find 
the hidden doctor, as he must find 
him, before noon of that day. If only 
back in the hills there were any horse 
to bring the doctor back who could 
compare with this brave Barbe-Noire ! 

Ah, Prinhac ! ah, Prinhac ! What 
says the Scripture? “The race is 
not to the swift nor the battle to the 
strong.” As he was passing through 
the little hamlet of Dagnieu, nod- 
ding good-naturedly to a group of 
frightened children, who were hud- 
dling together by the hedge that they 
might be out of his way, Barbe-Noire 
trod with his forefoot on a sheet of 
ice, disguised under a cloud of slime 
which had flowed down on it the day 
before. The horse slipped, tried to 
rally, and lost the regularity of his 
pace ; slipped again, brought up his 
hind feet on the same treacherous ice, 
and before his master could draw 
foot from stirrup, horse and rider had 
fallen heavily upon the stones of the 
wayside. 

Prinhac uttered no sound. But he 
was fettered for the moment beneath 


the weight of the horse and was power 
less. Poor Barbe-Noire did his best 
— his very best. Is the poor fellow 
maimed? That was Prinhac’s first 
thought, — whether he himself were 
maimed would appear afterwards. 

Then ho made outcry enough to 
call to his aid, first a frightened girl, 
and then her brothers, and then every 
man and woman of the wretched 
hamlet. Barbe-Noire had in the 
mean while struggled to his feet. 
But Barbe-Noire would never bear 
rider again. In that cruel fall the 
horse’s slender fore-leg had broken 
just above the fetlock ; and though 
Prinhac and the rest tried to per- 
suade themselves that this was but a 
sprain, every effort the poor beast 
made was more painful to see, and 
it needed only the most tender touch 
at the place where the bone was 
broken, to know that the calamity 
could never be cured. 

For poor Prinhac himself the fall 
had been as hard. “ I would not 
say a word,” he said, “ if the horse 
could only move.” But whether he 
chose to say a word or no, none the 
less was it clear that his left shoul- 
der on which he had fallen was power- 
less. The truth was, that his arm 
had been wrenched from its socket 
by the blow. 

The peasants were stupid, but were 
kind. One and all they offered such 
help as they could, and suggested 
this and that cabin as open to Prin-. 
hac till the priest could be sent for ; 
or at Balan below there was a famous 
farrier. If the gentleman wished, 
Ode, here, should be sent on the 
gray mare for him. But Prinhac 
listened with little favor to any talk 
of the priest, nor did he seem to care 
much for the farrier. “ This is what 
I want, my brave friends,” he said. 
“ I want to send a bit of vellum as big 


In His Name. 


2fi 


•as your two fingers to the doctor who 
is in the hills beyond Rambert de 
Joux. It is not three hours’ ride. 
Who will go there ? ” 

Stupidly they all listened, and no 
one answered. There was a look of 
inquiry which passed from each to 
each which would have been droll 
were not the occasion so serious. It 
seemed to say : “ Is the man a sim- 
pleton, or does he think we are sim- 
pletons ? ” 

u Fifty sols in silver,” said Prin- 
hac, cheerfully, u to the man who will 
take this bit of paper to the charcoal- 
burner Mark of Seyssel. Who is the 
man, or who is the pretty girl that 
will do it ? ” as his eye fell on a sun- 
burned maiden. “ Fifty sols to a 
man, or sixty to a girl.” 

But they stood as if he spoke He- 
brew to them, and neither girl nor 
man replied. 

“ Is there nobody,” said Prinhac, 
discouraged more by his failure than 
his pain, — “nobody who is willing 
to save a dying woman’s life for the 
love of Christ?” 

“ You should have asked that be- 
fore!” said a tall, lithe man, speaking in 
the purest Romance. He had seemed 
perfectly indifferent, even uncon- 
scious, until he heard these last words. 
“You should have asked that before. 
Antoine, Marie, take these brats home. 
Paul, Jean, Pierre, the whole troop of 


you, lead this poor beast to the 
priest’s house, and groom him well. 
Felix, show the gentleman the way 
to Our Lady’s stile. Then he turned 
to Prinhac, — 

“ This is a noble horse, my friend, 
who has borne you well ; but the Arab 
who is to take me to your doctor, 
can give minutes to any beast in the 
Abbot’s stables, and shall still win the 
crown. You will find me at Our Lady’s 
stile, ready to serve you, — 

‘Lx His Name.’” 

Sure enough, when poor Prinhac, 
who walked stoutly and stiffly, lean- 
ing his whole weight, as it seemed, on 
the shoulder of this willing Felix, — 
when he came to Our Lady’s stile, 
here was his new friend mounted on 
a noble Arab, of the breed which at 
that time was just finding its way 
into Southern France from the ports 
of the southern shore. Prinhac took 
from his pocket the precious missive, 
and whispered to the workman the di- 
rections he had received from Giulio 
the Florentine. The villager had a 
little switch in his hand with which 
he marked in the air the sign of the 
Cross of Malta. The poor, faint 
weaver did the same with his finger ; 
and they parted, the one for his quick 
ride, the other for such comfort as he 
could find in the cabin of Pierre Bo- 
ronne. 


CHAPTER V. 

LOST AND FOUND. 


Gualtier of the Mill knew every 
inch of the way before him, knew 
where and how to spare his horse, 
where to take a short cut by ways 
known to scarcely any except the 
charcoal-burners, where to ford a 


stream, and how to save a hill. So 
far he had the advantage for this 
service of poor Prinhac, whose zeal 
had cost him so dearly. And Gual- 
tier of the Mill trusted more openly 
to the talisman which they had both 


26 


In His Name. 


been using. As he worked his way 
into the mountains, he had less fear of 
any spies or tip-staves of the Bishop 
and his crew, and did not hesitate to 
show the flag under which he served. 
It happened to him, as it happened 
to Prinhac, to come upon one of the 
draw -bridges which so often held the 
roadway where it crossed a stream. 
But the moment Gualtier appeared 
on the height above, it was enough 
for him to mark in the air with the 
sign of the Cross of Malta, and the 
attendants of the bridge, some sort of 
rural gens-d’armes known in those 
days, ran to let it down for the rider, 
■who acknowledged the courtesy as he 
passed, by saying, gently, u It is for 
the love of Christ,” and received, as 
he knew he should, the countersign, 
“And in his name.” The road be- 
came more and more hilly, but in an 
hour he had made more than three 
good leagues, and he came upon the 
picturesque height of Meximieux just 
as the people from village and from 
castle had poured into the church for 
the Sunday service of the day. 

Gualtier looked round him and 
saw no man. He rode to the church 
door, swung himself from the horse, 
which he left wholly unfastened, and 
entered in the midst of the assembly, 
who were upon their knees. Gualtier 
knelt also, and joined in the devo- 
tions ; but at the first change in the 
order of the service, he noted one 
worshipper whose white head was 
still hidden in his hands, bent over 
him, and whispered “ For the Love of 
Christ.” The old man rose without 
a word, and they left the church 
together. A moment’s conference, 
and he bade Gualtier wait for him 
where the road turns from the stable- 
gate of the castle, he swung himself 
over the hedge-stile and was gone. 
Gualtier of the Mill walked his horse 


to the fork in the road which had 
been indicated, and at the same mo- 
ment the gray-haired villager was 
there with the best horse from the 
Baron’s stab’e. Gualtier left his 
own in his care, saluted as before, and 
was gone. “ It is in his name,” said 
his new-found friend. 

Two hours from Meximieux with 
riding so fast should have brought 
him to Ihe charcoal-burner’s hut, 
which had been indicated all along as 
the station at which he was aiming. 
But these were no longer ways for 
travellers. They were only the paths 
that fagot-makers or charcoal-burn- 
ers had made for their convenience 
between rocks, bushes, and trees, and 
which at their convenience they neg- 
lected again. Gualtier of the Mill 
used his sense as long as any man’s 
sense could save him at all. He 
chose such paths as led a little south 
of east, as he had been bidden. He 
got a glimpse now and then of the 
stronghold above Rossillon, passed, 
as he was bidden, the castle of Vieux- 
Mont-Ferrand ; but at last, in a tan- 
gle of low, scrubby oaks, and amid 
piles of rocks which seemed to have 
been hurled together in some play 
of ogres, no path looked promising 
among the sheep-tracks and the traces 
of the feet of the asses and mules, 
from whose charcoal loads the litter 
still strewed the ground. 

Gualtier of the Mill stopped, fairly 
confounded. He blew a shrill whistle, 
and had no answer. He dropped his 
reins on the neck of his horse, and 
his horse stood still. He faithfully 
tried the pathway which seemed to- 
trend most to the eastward, and it 
led him in fifty yards distance to the- 
place where chips on the ground 
showed that the wood-cutters had 
taken out some saplings there, and 
had gone no farther. He came back 


In Ilis Name. 


27 


1 to the “ abomination of desolation/’ 

I as it seemed to him, sat undecided, 
though he knew indecision was ruin, 
and it seemed to him a voice from 
heaven when he heard the loud laugh 
of a little child. 

In an instant the child was hushed, 

| and all was still again. But the 
sound was enough for Gualtier of 
the Mill. He pushed his horse to 
the place it came from, through a 
close thicket of tangled cedars which 
he had refused to try before, and 
after a steep descent came out on a 
group of a dozen frightened chil- 
dren by the side of a brook. They 
had been at play there, had heard 
his horse’s footsteps, and had been 
frightened into silence by the sound. 
For in the lawlessness of those times, 
the havoc made by everybody who 
rode on horseback, whether he rated 
himself as knight, squire, man-at- 
arms, or highwayman, was such that 
peasant children like these, in such a 
wilderness as this, had much the same 
notion of such travellers as had the 
old crone whom Prinhac had sum- 
moned in the early morning. And 
so the older brothers and sisters of 
this group had been trying to keep 
the little ones silent till the horse- 
man should go by. 

Gualtier of the Mill drew up his 
horse when he saw the pretty com- 
pany, and in a cheerful way said, 
“Who is playing fox and goose 
here?” And the little children hid 
behind the bigger ones, and the big- 
ger ones hung their heads, and said 
nothing. 

“ And which of you can tell me 
the way to the house of Mark of 
Seyssel, where the road from Culoz 
comes in ? ” 

The little children hid behind the 
bigger ones, and the bigger ones 
hung their heads, as before. 


“ Now I really hoped,” said the - 
good-natured miller, “ I really hoped 
I had found one of Mark’s little 
girls ; and I really hoped she would 
show me the way. At my home I 
have four girls and five boys, and 
they all know all the sheep-tracks 
and all the horse-tracks. And when 
Father Antony comes and says, ‘Who 
will mount my mule and show me 
the way?’ why Jean runs, and Ger- 
trude runs, and Antoine runs, and 
Marie runs, and all of them want to* 
show him.” 

The miller understood the way to 
children’s hearts. But these chil- 
dren had been trained to hold their 
peace among strangers. More than 
once, as the older of them knew, had 
life depended on their discretion \ 
and so stolid were their faces as 
Gualtier of the Mill tried his seduc-' 
tions, that even he was deceived. He 
fairly thought they did not know 1 
what the words meant which he was- 
speaking. 

He drew from his pocket the sil- 
ver whistle which he had blown just 
before. He sprang from his horse, 
and let the creature go at large. He* 
sat down on the ground by the young- 
est child, and with the whistle, whickr 
was a flageolet indeed, of the range 
of a few notes, played, for the child’s- 
amusement, a little air ; and then tak- 
ing the little thing upon his knee, 
tried if he would not take the play- 
thing. The child seemed to dread 
the reproof of the older children,, but 
the bauble was too tempting to be* 
resisted ; and when the pipe gave out 
a shrill, sharp sound at his effort, the' 
little thing laughed and became more 
fearless, and seemed more willing ter 
be won. Gualtier followed up his- 
victory ; and in the rough dialect of 
the Dauphin Mountains, which ho 
spoke as easily as the Proven9al in 


28 


In His Name. 


which he had been talking, he said 
again, — 

“It is Mark of Seyssel, the char- 
coal merchant, whom I want to 
find. Mark of Seyssel has some good 
little girls. Do jmu not know his 
little girls? I have a bright silver 
sol here for each of them.” 

You are a cunning fowler, Gualtier, 
and you are a keen fisherman. But 
here are fish who will not bite at 
every bait. It is one of Mark’s 
little boys whom you have upon your 
knee. And that tall, brave child, 
whose hair is braided in with a strip 
of red ribbon, is one of his girls. But 
the}' - know too well that they are to 
say nothing of roads unless they 
know they speak to friends. And 
not a flash of intelligence passes from 
one heavy eye to another. 

Then the miller wondered if per- 
haps these oldest children, wise as he 
saw them to be, had been trusted 
with secrets more precious than the 
mere guarding of a roadway. Still 
speaking in the mountain dialect, he 
said, as if he were speaking to the 
wind, without addressing one child 
more than another, “This is life and 
death for which I am travelling. A 
dear, loving girl will die this night, 
if, before the sun is at noon, I do 
not find the house of Mark of Seyssel. 
I wonder if any one could show me 


his house if I asked for the Love of 
Christ ? ” 

The brown-haired girl, and the 
stupid boy, and the other boy who 
held the long, peeled rod, and the 
other tall girl who had a baby in her 
arms — all started at the spell. The 
first of the four spoke in Proven9al, 
and said, “ I will lead you gladly to 
my father’s, now I know you come 

In IIis Name.” 

And in a minute more he was in 
the saddle again ; the child was sit- 
ting across it before him, he was 
pushing through this tangle and over 
that ford, scrambling up a hill-side, 
and then threading a low growth of 
under brush, till in less than a mile 
from the point where he had lost 
himself, the girl found voice again ; 
and, speaking in Provenfai as before, 
said, “ There is my father’s store- 
house.” And as she pointed, on the 
other side of a little clearing in the 
forest, he saw a rough cabin, built 
half of logs and half of rough stones. 
From a hole in the roof, quite too 
large, and indeed of too little archi- 
tectural form, to be called a chimney, 
a volume of smoke was pouring. 
Without this token, indeed, the loud 
voices of the men within would have 
taught the traveller that the charcoal- 
burner’s hut was not deserted. 


CHAPTER VL 

THE CHARCOAL-BURNER. 

The science of the iron forges in be used in the manufacture of the 
the valley below had already reached finer steels. Many a man who was 
some work so fine that the workmen part hunter and part shejifterd w r as 
there had instructed the peasants of willing to provide himself with his 
the hills, and sent them to a separate salt, with a few nails, with iron heads 
industry of burning and packing to his arrows, J and with better pip- 
pine, chestnut, and oak charcoal, to kins and mugs than they baked in 


In His Name . 


29 " 


the mountains, by answering the de- 
mand. The rough fellows had found, 
however, that it was better to make 
but one business of their trade with 
the iron and steel men ; and so now, 
for a generation and more, this rough 
cabin, where Mark of Seyssel now 
presided, had become a rendezvous for 
the charcoal-burners, and they had 
been in the habit of storing here the 
full bags in which they had packed 
their coals ready for the mules. 

In the middle of the cabin or hut, 
on an open place for fire, there were 
piled a dozen great logs, which made 
a cheerful point of union for the 
group, and from which, through a 
great, square hole in the roof, passed 
out the weird column of smoke which 
first caught the eye of the traveller. 
Around this, sitting and lying in 
every possible attitude, was the com- 
pany of the lazy peasants, getting 
rid of the winter day as best they 
could. 

“ If you ever see Lambert this 
side of purgatory, call me a liar. 
When I saw him cross the old bay, 
with his new baldric on him, I said, 
‘ Good-by, Lambert, we shall never 
meet again/ And I said it because 
I knew it.” 

“ But why do you know it, and 
how do you know it?” persisted the 
man with whom the speaker was 
talking. He sat shaping a bow, and 
letting the shavings of ash fall upon 
the live coals, as he made them. 
u How do you know it? Here at 
Blon I talked with the innkeeper, 
with all the grooms, and with Sirand 
himself. They all said that the 
Saracens would not stand the first 
battle wilh our men. They said 
there would be a new king at Jerusa- 
lem before Easter ; and that long be- 
fore another Christmas the Bishop 
would be at Lyons again, King Philip 


in Paris, King Richard in England ; 
and by the same token the count will 
be in his castle, and Lambert and 
Raymond and Forney and all the 
boys would be back here, with shells- 
on their hats, and with gold in their 
pockets.” 

“ Much does Sirand know,” re- 
torted the implacable grumbler, who- 
began : “ Has he talked with the 
Saracens? Has their famous king* 
the Lord Saladin, told him that they 
were all going to run away at the 
first battle? Has he been to see 
Jerusalem, that he thinks it a summer 
day’s journey to go there ? As for 
the innkeeper at Blon, the man is a 
fool. The last time I was there, he 
would have persuaded me to my face 
that I did not know a walnut bow 
from one made of ash. I wish he- 
may be choked with his own porridge. 
And if his grooms know no more of 
Saladin’s men than they know of 
Frenchmen’s horses, their talk is not 
worth retailing. I tell you it is a. 
fool’s errand they have all gone upon, 
and you will never see Lambert’s face 
again.” 

“ Is it a fool’s errand,” struck in a. 
little, lame man who sat on the other 
side of the fire, so that the two could 
hardly see him, “ to redeem the grave 
of our blessed Lord, and our blessed 
Lady, his mother, and of more saints- 
than I could name or you can count, 
from these misbegotten dogs, heathen* 
and sons of heathen? Did you hear 
the father tell how they flayed alive 
that poor Mary of Picardy when she 
went on a pilgrimage? Did you hear 
him tell how they built their cursed: 
fire against St. Joseph’s tomb, and 
cracked the columns, and heaved dirt 
upon the stone ? Fool’s errand indeed ! 
It ’s well for them to call it a fool’s 
errand who stay idling here at home. 
But had I two feet to walk, or a leg 


30 


In His Name. 


to cross a mule, I would not be hang- 
ing round here, throwing shame on 
better men.” 

“ Limping Pierre,” replied the 
other, good-naturedly, u I have heard 
you say that thing before, or what 
oame to the same end ; and, if you 
ohoose, you may say it seven times 
more, nay, seventy times seven, as 
the gospel says, and I will never 
quarrel with as good a fellow as you 
.are. But two things j^ou know and I 
know : one is, that Ambrose cared 
no more for our Lady nor for St. Jo- 
seph’s tomb than he cared for the 
snow on the top of the mountain, nor 
would he go one step of his lazy life 
to save them both from pollution. He 
went because he saw the others go, 
and he chose to be fed without work- 
ing, and to sleep on linen that other 
men’s wives had woven. He thought 
he should come back with gold he 
had not earned, and should hector 
over } T ou and me and other honest 
people because he had a shell in his 
hat-band. As for making war upon 
people because they are dogs and the 
sons of dogs, because their prayers 
are false, and their lives mean, — why 
we might make war on the Bishop 
and Chapter of Lyons for quite as 
good cause as they have to make war 
on King Saladin and his Emirs, if 
that happens to be his name.” 

The bold effrontery of the allusion 
to the bishop and chapter was wel- 
comed by a guffaw of laughter from 
some of the lazy throng ; but others 
fairly started, not so much in anger 
as in terror. “ Keep a civil tongue in 
your head, Matthew, or it will be the 
worse for all of us. There is treason 
enough and heresy enough talked in 
this store to give aT the hamlets over 
to the Couriers, and we may be sent 
a-begging before we know it with our 
wives and our children.” 


But to this protest Mark of Seyssel 
himself made answer, speaking for 
the first time : — 

“Jean Fisherman, if you do not 
like the talk here, you need not stay 
here. If you have any gossip to re- 
tail to the Courier or the Viguier 
you had better go and retail it, and 
good riddance to you. I am master 
of this hoveLand it is my castle ; when 
I am afraid of my guests, I will turn 
them out-doors. Till I am afraid of 
them, they will not check each other’s 
talk. For my own part,” said the 
burly collier, “ I am quite of black- 
eyed Matt’s mind, and I drink his 
very good health. When the pot is 
white, it may scold the kettle for be- 
ing black ; but while the priests and 
the abbots send men from their homes 
because they feed the poor, when they 
take their houses and steal their goods 
to make themselves comfortable, why, 
if they do go to the Holy Land with 
his Grace the King and his Holiness 
the Bishop, I am afraid they will carry 
no better Gospel than they left be- 
hind. For my part I wish I could see 
men here live as the saints lived, be- 
fore they go to whip the Saracens 
into living so.” And the stout 
collier took from the settle by him 
a tankard from which he had been 
drinking, passed it to black-eyed 
Matthew, as he called the bow-ma- 
ker, and bade him give to the others 
to drink in their turn. 

It was just as he had done this, 
that there was heard at the heavy 
doorway the sharp rap of the handle 
of Gualtier’s riding-whip, and on the 
instant the charcoal-burner bade him 
enter. The man seemed a little sur- 
prised at the sight of his omi daughter 
with the stranger. The child clearly 
felt that her duty was done. She 
dropped a courtesy, and was off to the 
shelter of the shrubbery in an instant. 


In His Harm. 


31 


The collier offered Gualtier a seat by 
the fire. But the whole assembly was 
hushed, so that no one would have 
guessed that they were all in talk so 
eager only the moment before. 

“ Are you Mark the collier? ” said 
the messenger. “ I am told that you 
can direct me to the house of Father 
Jean of Lugio.” 

“ Eh? ” was the only reply of the 
•stout collier, who but just now was 
;SO voluble, and was defending so 
volubly the sacred rights of volubil- 
ity in others. 

“ I have been riding, at my best, 
to find Father Jean of Lugio. I am 
told he makes his home in these 
parts. And he is needed, sorely 
needed, to-day in Lyons. I have a 
message for him here.” 

“ Eh?” was the grunt again, which 
the fuller explanation extorted from 
the collier. Gualtier was surprised. 
He had never seen this man, but he 
had not supposed him to be an idiot. 
And he had certainly supposed that 
a person who transacted so much 
business in the valley would have 
some knowledge of the Provencal. 
But he repeated his explanation, and 
more at length, in the hill dialect, in 
which he had spoken to the collier’s 
children. 

“Eh?” was the stupid reply as be- 
fore. But then the clown looked up 
heavily upon the others, and in the 
same language said, “ Boys, do you 
hear what the gentleman says? Do 
any of you know anything of this 
Jean of Lugio, this father whom he 
has come to see?” 

The men looked stupidly upon 
each other, as if they could not un- 
derstand this dialect any more than 
he could understand the Proven9al of 
the miller. 

Gualtier looked round to see if one 
face were any more intelligent than 


the others. Then he took from his 
pocket six or eight pieces of silver, 
tossed them in the air, and caught 
them again in his hand. Speaking in 
the same dialect he said, “ These are 
for any good fellow who will go to 
the house of the father for me ; and 
here are as many more for any one 
who comes back with him.” But a 
dead, stupid wonder, which hardly 
counted for curiosity, was the only 
emotion which seemed to be aroused , 
even by this unwonted display. Gual- 
tier of the Mill felt as if, even at the 
last moment, he was foiled. “ A tall 
man,” he said, “ with a tonsure, and 
the hair around it, as white as snow. 
He bends a little as he walks, he is 
so tall ; he favors his right foot in 
walking.” 

“ Eh? ” from Mark of Seyssel, was 
the only answer. 

Gualtier was provoked with him- 
self that he had not kept the child. 
The child at least could speak, and 
could understand. It seemed to him 
that of the group of idlers there was 
not one, no, not the stout head of the 
castle himself, who seemed to take 
the least interest in his mission. Far 
less could they help him, if they had 
chosen. 

Provoked with himself for letting 
the child go, he walked again to the 
door to see if he could trace her ; but 
she was out of sight long ago. He 
turned back, and the others were sit- 
ting as stolidly as he found them. On 
the instant, however, the inspiration 
came to him, and he saw that the 
talisman by which he had succeeded 
with her might be as effective with 
these churls. In truth, the dulness 
of the men had entirely deceived 
him. He had lost his presence of 
mind, and was fairly confused by the 
charcoal-dealer’s well-acted stupidity. 
As Gualtier closed the door again, 


32 


In His Name. 


he took lip a bit of charcoal from the 
floor, and, as if to amuse himself in a 
careless habit, on the door itself drew 
roughly a Roman cross, of which the 
vertical line was not longer than the 
cross bar, and then with a few touch- 
es improved upon it till it became 
the Cross of Malta, with its sharp 
points and re-entering angles at each 
extremity. 



Beneath the cross he wrote in La- 
tin the two words, “ Amore Christi.” 

Before he had finished the inscrip- 
tion, the bow-maker had risen from 
the ground and was putting on his 
outer jerkin, as if to leave the fire. 
Two others of the idlers, also, seemed 
to have done all they had to do in 
the cabin, and made as if they were 
going away. Mark of Seyssel him- 
self said aloud, “It’s nigh to noon, 
and I shall sit here no longer. If 
Francis, comes bid him ask the old 
woman where I am.” So saying he 
brushed out by Gualtier, and as he 
opened the door, said to him, “ Come 
away from them into the air.” As 
the miller followed him, he led the 
way apart from ear-shot in the house, 
and said, “You should have made 
some signal before. There are men 
in that hut that would gladly put the 
Father in irons, and throw him into 
the lake of Bourget. But you can 
trust me, and indeed more than me, 
if you come 

In His Name.” 

Then Gualtier told the awakened 
savage who he was, and why he came ; 
that he had in his hand what he 
was told it was of the first importance 


that the Father should know that he 
had been bid to bring this missive : 

“ For the love of Christ,” and that 
he had agreed to do so, “ in his 
name.” He told Mark of Seyssel that 
as token of his truth, he would trust 
the parchment to him, and that he 
might carry it to the master’s hiding- 
place ; that the master then could 
make his own choice whether to come 
or to refuse. “ Only this I know, said 
the miller, “that if he do not show 
himself at this spot ready to mount 
my horse here when the sun is at 
noon, I see no use of his coming here 
at all ; for the order is that he is to- 
cross the bridge at Lyons before the 
sun goes down. You know, my 
friend,” said he, “ that he is a brave 
horseman who makes that distance in 
that time.” 

The collier hurried away. The 
rider returned into the hut and 
threw himself on the ground by 
Jean the fisherman. Jean was anx- 
ious enough to try to find out who 
the stranger was, and to learn more 
of the errand on which he had come ' r 
but Gualtier was as shrewd as he 
was, parried question with question, 
and for an hour the group was as 
much in doubt as when he found them 
as to his business. He had sense 
enough to produce a flask of wine 
from behind the saddle of his horse r 
and offered this in token of good* 
fellowship to the company. They 
talked about the frost, about the 
freshet, about the price of coal, about 
the new mines of iron ; and they had 
approached the central subject of the 
great crusade again, when Mark of 
Seyssel again entered the smoky 
cabin. 

He took the place he had left by 
the fire, and said to the miller, “ I 
have given to your horse all the oats 
I had, and he has eaten them aH.’* 


In His Name . 


33 


He said this gruffly ; and those who 
were not in the secret might well 
imagine, as he meant they should, 
that his interview with the stranger 
had related chiefly to his horse's wel- 
fare. Gualtier thanked him with the 
good nature he had shown all along, 
counted out copper enough to pay 


for the oats, bade the party good-by, 
and said he would go farther on his 
journey. He crossed the opening to 
the place where the horse was teth- 
ered, and there under the juniper-tree 
to which he was fastened, he found, 
as lie had hoped to find, Father Jean 
of Lugio. 


CHAPTER YII. 

JOHN OF LUGIO. 


John of Lugio is one of the men 
who did the world service wellnigh 
inestimable in his day, and who 
is to-day by the world at large, for- 
gotten. When one reads in the Epis- 
tle to the Hebrews of men who had 
trial of mockings and scourgings, 
of bonds and imprisonments ; who 
were destitute, afflicted, tormented ; 
who wandered in deserts and moun- 
tains and dens and caves of the earth, 
— 4 ‘of whom the world was not wor- 
thy,” — one ought to remember for a 
moment that he owes it to a few groups 
of just such men, one of whom was this 
forgotten John of Lugio* that he is 
able to read those words at all, or is 
indeed permitted to do so. 

When Peter Waldo, the prosperous 
merchant of Lyons, was first awak- 
ened to the value of the gospel for 
all men around him, and saw their 
ignorance of it as well, he gave him- 
self and his means not only to feed- 
ing the hungry and finding homes 
for the homeless, but to wayside in- 
struction in the words of Christ. He 
found one and another version of 
parts of the Old and New Testament 
in the Romance language. The very 
oldest specimen of that language 
which we have to-day is a paraphrase, 
of a generation or two before Peter 
W aldo’s time, of the Bible history. It 


is known by the name of the “ Noble 
Lesson.” The troubadours, whom we 
are wont to think of as mere singers 
of love songs and romances, were 
in those days quite as apt to sing 
these sacred songs, and they carried 
from place to place a more distinct 
knowledge of the Bible stories than 
the people gained in churches. 

Peter Waldo undertook to improve 
the popular knowledge of the Bible 
thus gained. This was an important 
part of his enterprise. He had him- 
self a sufficient knowledge of Latin 
to read the Latin V ulgate. To trans- 
late this into the language of Prov- 
ence, he gained the assistance of 
three intelligent priests, all of them, 
in office in Lyons. They were Bernard 
of Ydros, Stephen of Empsa, and 
John of Lugio, with whom the reader 
is now to become acquainted. Neither 
of the three supposed that there was, 
anything exceptional in their enter- 
prise, as how should they? They and 
their friend were at work to teach th& 
common people the “ Word of God ” 
more simply and perfectly, and what 
better could they do ? Of the three,. 
Stephen undertook the work of trans- 
lation especially ; John examined 
the other translations and compared 
them with Stephen’s, — he studied 
the critics, sought in every direction 


34 


In His Name . 


the best authorities, and made this 
new Bible of the people as perfect 
as careful scholarship and the best 
learning of the time could do. Ber- 
nard took the more humble part of 
transcribing the text agreed upon, — 
more humble but not less important. 
Probably a careful explorer in the old 
convent libraries of the South of 
France might now find his patient 
manuscripts, even after the ruthless 
destruction wrought by the persecu- 
tors of that century and the century 
which followed. When Peter Waldo 
made his journey to Rome, to ask for 
the benediction of the Pope on their 
labors, one or all of these men prob- 
ably accompanied him. As has been 
said already, the Pope was only too 
glad to find that such assistance in 
the organization of religion was 
raised up among the laymen of Lyons. 
The scheme prepared was very much 
like that which St. Francis proposed 
only a few years later ; where it dif- 
fered from his, it differed in a more 
broad and generous understanding of 
the needs of the great body of the 
people. 

If only the bishop and chapter of 
Lyons had been equal to the 
•exigency ! But, alas, they were not 
equal to it. To them the great real- 
ity of religion was their newly -bought 
temporal power over the city and 
country. The interference of mer- 
chants, whether as almoners or as lay 
readers in the affairs of the city, was 
no part of their plan. They had not 
bought out the Count of Forez, and 
freed themselves from his dictation, 
to be dictated to now by a set of fana- 
tics within their own wall. They there- 
fore, as has been said, refused all ap- 
proval to the far-seeing plans of Peter 
Waldo; they excommunicated him 
and his, confiscated their property, 
and drove them from their homes. 


Such crises try men’s souls, and it 
is from such fires that tempered metal 
only comes out uninjured. Of the 
four men who had worked together 
in the distribution of the new Bible, \ 
two were taken and two were left. 
Peter Waldo endured the loss of all j 
things, travelled over the world of 
Europe, and left everywhere his great 
idea of a Bible for the people, and of 
a church in which layman as well as 
priest was a minister to God. Ber- 
nard and Stephen could not stand the 1 
test. They made their peace with 
the authorities of the Lyonese church, ; 
and no man knows their after history. 
John of Lugio, whom we ask the 
reader of these lines to remember 
among the men of whom the world 
of his own time was not worthy, never 
turned back from the plough. He 
had consecrated his life to this idea 
of a free Bible. To this idea he gave 
his life. It would be hard to name 
any city of Central Europe, even as 
far as Bohemia, which did not profit 
by his counsels and his studies. And 
when John IIuss went to the stake, in 
loyalty to the sameldea, he and the 
men around him were willing to ac- 
knowledge their obligation to John of 
Lugio and to Peter Waldo. 

The priest stood waiting for the 
miller, curious to know what man- 
ner of man he was who had so reso- 
lutely brought the message which he 
held. He was not himself dressed 
in the costume of any ecclesiastical 
order. Nor was he, on the other hand, 
dressed as any nobleman, far less 
as any soldier of the time would have 
been. He might have been taken 
for some merchant’s messenger, sent 
back from Lyons into the country 
on a message about flax or woollen. 
His white hair appeared below a 
traveller’s hat ; his tonsure of course 
was invisible. ^His surcoat was 


In His Name. 


35 


tightly buttoned, as for a cold ride. 
There was nothing in the color 
or in the fashion of his costume 
such as would challenge the remark 
of any wayfarer. 

“ I am not Jean Waldo’s own mes- 
senger,” was the immediate reply of 
Gualtier of the Mill, to his first in- 
quiry ; u I am only, as you see, a 
‘Poor Man of Lyons,’ who was recog- 
nized as such by our secret password 
when the messenger to whom Jean 
Waldo gave this mission fell with 
his good horse almost at my house 
door. It was clear enough that if 
the message meant anything it meant 
speed. This Prinhac crossed the draw- 
bridge at Lyons before daybreak, 
because the bridge was held by one 
of our people ; but one cannot tell 
if there shall be any such good fortune 
this evening. The bridge may be 
held by your worst enemy. Why! 
you have scant five hours to make 
these twelve leagues which have cost 
us wellnigh seven hours. True, you 
have to go down the hills, which we 
have had to climb. Your horses 
will be ready, while ours had to be 
groomed and saddled. But, holy fa- 
ther, it will not answer to have any 
horse fall under you ; for, if I un- 
derstand the message I have brought, 
it is not every lay -brother who can 
take your place to-night at yon 
girl’s bedside.” 

Father John would not even smile. 
“ The Lord will direct,” he said, “and 
the Lord will provide. Whether my 
journey helps or hinders, only the 
Lord knows. But it seems to be His 
work. For the love of Christ I am 
summoned, and in his name I go. 
Young man,” he added, as Gualtier 
of the Mill adjusted for him the stir- 
rups of the noble horse who was to 
bear him, “ when I left Lyons, they 
burned in the public square the pre- 


cious books to which I had given 
twenty of the best years of this lit- 
tle life. What I could do for God 
and his Holy Church, they vainly 
tried to destroy. They compelled 
me to part from my own poor ; from 
the widows whose tears were sacred ; 
from the orphans I had taught and 
had fed ; from humble homes, which 
are as so many temples to me of 
God’s well-beloved Son. I said then, 
as their mocking Viguier led me to 
the draw-bridge, which I am to pass 
to-night, and bade me ‘ Begone,’ — I 
said, I will not see you henceforth 
till the day in which ye shall say, 
‘Blessed is he that cometh in the 
name of the Lord.’ Young man, 
this Jean Waldo to whose household 
I am bidden lifted no hand for me 
that day, nor for his kinsman, my 
noble friend, nor for one of the Poor 
Men of Lyons, or her Poor Women 
or Children. But time brings its 
recompense ; and to-day he is praying 
God that I may come in time. Fa- 
ther Almighty, hear and answer his 
prayer ; and grant thy servant wis- 
dom and strength to render some 
service this day somewhere to thy 
children.” 

The Miller reverently said “Am6n.” 
The priest made the sign of the 
cross, and blessed him in parting, 
and then was gone. 

That is a curious experience in 
which a man of fifty-five enters on 
an enterprise such as he has not 
tested for thirty years. He feels as 
young as ever, if he be a man of pure 
life. The spirit of man never grows 
old ; it seems, indeed, to grow young, 
when it becomes as a little child 
every day. But John of Lugio knew 
that, when he was five-and- twenty, 
he would not have put his foot into 
the stirrup to spring into the saddle. 
He knew that he would not for such 


30 


la His Name . 


a day's adventure have girt on the 
surcoat he was wearing. “It is as 
well/’ he said to the spirited horse 
who bore him, “ it is as well that you 
are not thirty years older than the 
gray stalliop who bore me the last 
day I ever saw the great Bernard.” 
And the memory of that day of his 
youth, and of its contrast with to- 
day, pleased him and engaged him for 
more than one mile. And any lead- 
er of men who should have watched 
his skill in handling his horse, and 
making the most of eve^ advantage 
in the way, would have chosen the 
white-haired priest as he would hard- 
\y have chosen any younger man for 
service like this which engaged him. 
As physical strength declines, — and 
it does decline after the physical man 
is forty-five years old, — still experi- 
ence, tact, habit of hand and eye, are 
all improving in a man well-governed 
and self-poised. And John of Lugio 
had not yet reached that age when the 
declining curve of physical strength 
crosses the ascending curve of expe- 
rience and skill. There was not 
among all the crusaders who at that 
moment were trying a winter in Pal- 
estine, or on the way thither, one 
knight or squire more fit for hardy, 
active service than was he. 

An hour’s quick riding brought 
him to St. Rambert, where the Bre- 
Von, scarcely more than a brook, joins 
the larger stream called the Albarine. 
It was even then a quaint old town, 
which is just what the traveller would 
call it now. Its name is a corruption 
of that of St. Raynebert, a son of 
the Duke Radbert, a martyr of five 
centuries before John of Lugio’s time 
and day. Before his time there had 
been some worship of Jupiter on the 
hills above, and the name of the old 
god lingered in the title “Joux,” 
which hung even to the saint’s 


name. St. Rambert de Joux was 
the name by which everybody knew 
the village. The brook plunges and 
rages in a series of cascades down 
a narrow valley, and the rider took a 
pathway down, which seemed wholly 
familiar to him, which led him under 
the walls of the Benedictine abbey. 
As he passed the gate, two of the 
brethren, in the costume of the order, 
came out after their noonday refec- 
tion, and in the narrow pathway 
could not but look upon the rider’s 
face, as he on them. They recognized 
him in an instant. 

“ Whither so fast, Brother John? ” 
This was their salutation. 

It was impossible not to draw bri- 
dle. And the first welcome of the 
two, impelled perhaps by the very 
suddenness of their meeting, was so 
cordial, that one must have been 
more cynical by far than John of 
Lugio not to respond with warmth 
and kindness. “ My brother Ste- 
phen, my brother Hugh, are you two 
here? I was thinking of the breth- 
ren, but I did not know that you 
were so near. Father Ambrose does 
not send to me to tell me the names 
of the new arrivals.” 

“ Father Ambrose will never send 
you the names of new arrivals more. 
He lies behiud the chapel yonder, and 
we shall lay his body in the grave 
to-morrow.” This was the imme- 
diate answer ; and then there was 
an instant’s pause, as they all rec- 
ognized the awkwardness of their 
position. 

John of Lugio was excommuni- 
cate. Whether they might speak to 
him in friendship was almost a ques- 
tion. That they ought in strictness 
to denounce him, and report to their 
superiors his presence in a town 
from which he had been formally ban- 
ished — of this there could be no 


In His Name . 


37 


question. But the two monks were 
men and were Christians before they 
were monks, and with Jean both of 
them were united by old ties. “ Will 
you rest your horse — will you rest 
yourself?” said Stephen, bravely. “ I 
will take him myself into the stable, 
und Hugh will be only too glad to 
find you a cold dinner in the refec- 
tory. Your horse has travelled far ; 
he will not be the worse for groom- 
ing.” 

“ He must travel farther before he 
is groomed — and I. But I shall 
travel the lighter, Stephen, for the 
kind words you speak ; and you will 
sleep the easier that you have spoken 
them. Do you, too, do your work, 
and I will do mine ; and we will let 
nothing that men can do or can say 
part us. No — I must not stop. I 
would not put you two in danger by 
accepting your service, if I could ; 
but I must do what few men do in 
these degenerate days, and cross 
the long bridge at Lyons before the 
sun goes down. Take the blessings 
-of a Poor Man of Lyons, of a here- 
tic, excommunicate ! God bless you, 
my brother — and you ! ” 

“ God bless you, John ; God bless 
you !” said the two, as they made way 
for his horse. 

“ It is for tbe love of Christ that 
1 am speeding,” said he, tenderly ; 
“ pray in your prayers to-day for the 
Father’s blessing on me ‘ in ms 
name.’ ” 

And they parted. If the monks 
were startled by the adventure, and 
they were, none the less w r as John 
of Lugio startled by it. He was not 
•afraid of them. He had seen too 
•clearly that the voice of the Holy 
’Spirit had spoken to both of them 
more loudly than any rule or inter- 
dict. He knew that both of them 
would confess the sin of concealing 


his presence ; that both of them 
would loyally do the penances ap- 
pointed. He knew as well that nei- 
ther of them would betray him, while 
betrayal would endanger him ; and 
that neither of them, in his heart of 
hearts, would ever be sorry for the 
silent service rendered to him that 
day. 

The adventure set him upon other 
thought than sympathy with them. 
Had he gratified the wishes and pas- 
sion of his youth, his home would 
have been at this hour within those 
walls. Pie would have been the 
senior of every man, except Ste- 
phen, in that fraternity. He knew 
them all, — yes, and he knew perfect- 
\y well that not one of them affected 
to be his equal in the scholarship 
and learning to which the abbey was 
devoted. Humanly speaking, on 
the Abbot Ambrose’s death, he him- 
self, John of Lugio, would have be- 
come his successor, the lord of this 
lovely estate, the director in these 
noble ministries, the first student in 
these happy cloisters, if — if he had 
only obeyed the wish of his heart 
thirty years ago, and given himself 
here to student life ! 

But instead of that, Jean of Lugio 
had given himself to the immediate 
help of the Poor Men of Lyons. He 
had turned away from the fascina- 
tion of study, to make the weavers 
and dyers and boatmen of Lyons 
purer men and happier ; to bring com- 
fort and life into their homes, and to 
make simpler their children’s path to 
heaven. He had done this with his 
eyes open. He had turned away 
from the Abbey of Corn ii Ion, and 
had made himself God’s minister in 
the hovels of Lyons. And of this 
the reward was, that this day he haz- 
arded his life by going back to 
Lyons to render one service more, 


38 


In His Name. 


while he might have been waiting, 
as the senior in the fraternity, within 
those happy abbey walls, to render 
fit service at the Abbot Ambrose’s 
grave. 

If — and the picture of half a life 
came in upon that if. But to John 
of Lugio that picture brought no re- 
grets. He had chosen as his God 
directed him. In calmness he had 
foreseen what in the heat of conflict 
he had seen, and what he now looked 
back upon. Foreseeing, — seeing or 
looking back, — it was the picture of 
duty bravely done. And Father Jean 
passed down from under the walls of 
the abbey without a sigh or a tear. 

The road still follows the stream, 
and the valley is by no means 
straight. Its curves are picturesque 
enough, but they do not* lead a trav- 
eller very directly. He passed along 
the face of Mount Charvet, left the 
village of Serrieres on his left, and 
came, before he dared to hope, 
to the new Castle of Montferrand. 
By a sudden determination he rode 
abruptly to the castle gate ; and find- 
ing no warden, called loudly to a lit- 
tle boy whom he saw within, and 
bade him summon either a porter or 
some officer of the baron’s house- 
hold. 

The truth was, that as he tried 
the Baron of Meximieux’s noble 
gray stallion on one and another 
pace in descending the steep slopes 
from St. Rambert, it became pain- 
fully clear that the horse had done 
his work for that day. The miller 
had pressed him, perhaps, harder 
than he meant or knew ; and, what- 
ever care he had taken, the good 
horse had made near ten leagues, 
with only the hour’s rest which had 
been given him at the cabin of Mark 
of Seyssel. If the priest were to 
’succeed in the task assigned to him, 


he must make better speed than in 
the last hour he had made. This 
certainty determined his bold appeal 
at the castle. 

A summons so hearty roused all 
its inmates, and they appeared at one 
or ano£her door or corridor with that 
curiosity which in all times draws out 
the inhabitants of a lonely country- 
house, when there is chance to look 
upon some unexpected face, no mat- 
ter of what human being. The 
Baron of Montferrand himself made 
his appearance. He was not dressed 
as if for King Philip’s court, or for 
the Emperor’s. In truth, he had 
spent the morning in the occupation 
— not very lordly, as we count lords, 
but perfectly baronial in the customs* 
of his time — of directing the ser- 
vants, who flayed and cut to pieces a 
fat boar which they had brought in 
at the end of yesterday’s hunting. 
From this occupation, in which he 
had himself personally assisted, the 
baron had been called to dinner ; and 
he had dined without the slightest 
thought of revising or improving his- 
toilet. Before dinner was fairly 
over, he had fallen asleep in the 
chair, not uncomfortable, in w'hich he 
sat at the head of the table. He wa& 
roused from his nap by the hurrying 
of one and another servant, as it 
was announced that a stranger was 
at the gate. A stranger in those 
days of December was not a frequent 
intruder. 

John of Lugio was already talking 
with porter and seneschal. He was 
not displeased to see the baron ap- 
proach him. The old man came 
bareheaded, and without any outer 
garment, beyond what he had worn 
at table, to protect him from the* 
cold. The traveller knew him on the 
instant ; had seen him more than 
once in one or another journey up 


In His Name. 


39 


or down this valley, and, indeed, in 
closer intimacies, in the ministry of 
more than thirty years. But the 
baron, not caring a great deal for 
priests, and not having a great deal 
to do with them, did not for an in- 
stant suspect that the hardy rider 
with whom he had to do wore a ton- 
sure, or had more than once lifted 
the consecrated chalice before him at 
the mass. He saluted the stranger 
somewhat abruptly, but still cour- 
teously, and invited him to dismount 
and rest himself. 

u I thank you for your courtesy, 
my Lord,” was the reply. “ But my 
errand requires haste, as you will 
see. I am bidden to Lyons this very 
night, and that on service which 
brooks no delay. I had hoped that 
this horse, which is from the stables 
at Meximieux, would take me thith- 
er, and there a fresh beast waits me ; 
but I have already taken from him 
the best that he can give, and he 
will make slow work of the long 
reach that is left for me. This is 
why I have stopped here : to ask, not 
your hospitality, but your help. If 
I may leave this good horse, and if 
you have another which will take me 
down the valley, you shall have my 
hearty thanks, and the blessings of 
the home where they need me.” 

“ You tell your story frankly,” said 
the baron ; and with a stiff oath he 
added, “ if I gave horses to every 
vagabond from the troop of Mexi- 
mieux, I should have few horses left 
to give.” Without farewell or apol- 
ogy, he turned to go back to his 
dining-hall. 

“ Pardon me, my Lord,” persisted 
Father John, without the slightest 
passion or haste in his voice. “ I am 
no man of the Baron of Meximieux. 
I am no man’s man. I am sent for 
on a work of mercy, because one 


Jean Waldo thinks that I can save 
his child’s life. If I am to serve 
her, I must be in Lyons to-night. If 
I am there, the service will be yours, 
not mine.” 

“ If I should give horses to every 
beggar who chooses to ride out of 
Lyons, I should have no horses to 
give,” said the baron. Like many 
men of little invention, he had been 
so much pleased by the cadence of 
his first retort, that he could not but 
try its force again. But the repeti- 
tion of the insult gave the father 
courage. A man truly resolved 
does not say the same thing twice. 
Most likely he does not speak twice 
at all. 

“ I am no beggar from Lyons, or 
no servant of the Lyons merchant. 
Lyons does not love me, nor is there 
an}*- reason but what I tell why I 
should care to enter Lyons. But if 
you had a daughter dying, my Lord 
Baron, and Jean Waldo could send 
her a physician, you would be glad 
to have him send, though you never 
saw his face, and though you do not 
love his craft or his city. Can you 
not do as you would be done by ?” 

He had perhaps gained his point, 
though the baron, with a stupid no- 
tion that he must maintain his dig- 
nity in the presence of his own ser- 
vants, tried to do so by a certain de- 
lay, which would have exasperated a 
person of less experience and less 
balance than Father John. 

“ How am I to know,” said the 
wavering Montferrand, “ that you are 
the leech you say you are? What is 
your token ? If I am to give a horse 
to every quack who rides between 
Amberieux and St. Rambert, I should 
have no horses left to give.” 

“ I have no token, my Lord. A 
man who has spoken truth for forty 
years, going up and down this val- 


40 


In His Name, 


ley, needs no token that he does not 
lie.” He took off his hat as he spoke, 
and showed the tonsure. “ You have 
received Christ’s body from this hand, 
my Lord. You know that these lips 
will not speak falsely to you.” And 
then, watching his man carefully, and 
noticing a change come on his face 
at the mention of the Saviour, he 
added as if by intention, and almost 
in a whisper : 46 It is for the love of 

Christ that I ask the best horse in 
your stables. ” 

“ Saddle Chilperic ! Saddle Chil- 
peric ! Why are you clowns gaping 
and sneezing there? Saddle Chil- 
peric ! I say, and take this gentle- 
man’s good horse where he can be 
cared for. Take my hand, father, 
take my hand. Gently — so — you 
are stiff from riding. Come into the 
hall and let the baroness have a 
word with you! Chilperic will not 
be ready for a minute, and you will 
at least drink a glass of wine ! If it 
only shows that you do not bear 
malice, you will drink a glass of 
wine ! We are rough fellows, we hill 
barons, and we speak when we do 
not think, Father. But, indeed, in- 
deed, I would have been more ready 
had you summoned me 

‘In His Name.’” 

And he crossed himself as he passed 
the threshold. 

In those surroundings, in the com- 
pany in which they were, the baron 
did not dare question the priest fur- 
ther, nor explain how he had been 
initiated into the secret fraternity by 
the password of which he had been 
adjured. Nor did he care to say 
much to explain the inconsistency of 
his brutal refusal of one moment, 
when it was compared with his ready 
tenderness at the next. Perhaps it 
la best for all of us that we do not 


have to reconcile such inconsisten- 
cies as ofte*? as we are conscious of 
them. Onco more he pressed the 
priest to refresh himself with wine, 
and he called loudly on his wife to 
join in his rough welcome as he en- 
tered the hall. 

The little woman came forward, 
bending somewhat with rheumatism 
more than age, but with freshness 
and quickness, and with all the cour- 
tesy and dignity of noble breeding. 
Whether the grooms and other ser- 
vants, and the idlers in the court-yard, 
had guessed the secret of the baron’s 
sudden change of purpose, or had 
failed to guess it, she, who had seen 
the whole from her open casement, 
understood it all in a flash. Now 
that Father John entered the room 
she recognized him in an instant, as 
the baron had not done. But she 
knew very well that his liberty and 
possibly even his life depended on 
his passing on his errand unrecog- 
nized by her servants, and her perfect 
manner, therefore, was exactly what 
it would have been had he been 
any other person — a friend of the 
Lyonese weaver — summoned in hot 
haste to his daughter’s bedside. She 
dropped her courtesy, advanced to 
take the hat of the traveller, begged 
him to sit at her husband’s side at 
the head of the table, and with her 
own hand poured the wine from the 
coarse jug which held it, into the 
highly-wrought cup which the bus- 
tling baron had found for his guest. 
“ I heard something said of a lady — 
a girl — a sick girl. Is there nothing 
I can send from our stores ? I could 
in a moment put up maiden-wort, or 
rosemary, or St. Mary’s herb, if your 
reverence will only take them.” 

But the Father thanked her and 
declined. His friends in Lyons must 
have at their command such drugs 


In His Name. 


41 


as could be of service, if anything 
•can be of service indeed. 

“Ah, sir/’ she said, “ if only you 
will render service to them, like the 
blessing you once gave to me ! ” 

“ To you ! ” and he looked amazed 
into those sharp little black eyes, 
which twinkled under eyebrows snow 
white with the same liveliness as if 
she were still sixteen years old. 

“ To me ! ” she said again ; and as 
he looked with undisguised ignor- 
ance of her meaning, it was impos- 
sible that she should not smile, and 
she hastily wiped away from the lit- 
tle eyes the tears that at first filled 
them. “Ah, you do not remember, 
<my Father. It is a shame for a 
knight to forget a lady whose colors 
he has worn, — may a priest forget a 
lady whom he has served in the last 
•extremity ? ” And she fairly laughed 
•at his perplexity. 

“ Ah, Madame ! you must pardon 
what time does, and exile. W hoever 
it is, I can see that you carry the 
secret of perpetual youth, but I lost 
that long ago. It is very long since 
I was in the castle of Montferrand, 
long before you were ever here, my 
lady.” 

“ Chilperic will be ready before 
you guess me out,” said she ; “ and, 
as your errand presses, I will tell 
you, if you will promise when it is 
over to stay as many weeks in the 
•castle, as you have now spent min- 
aites here. It is fair to remind you 
of the day when a girl with a scarlet 
•cape, and a girl with a blue cape, 
and a girl with no cape at all, went 
sailing down the river with two 
young squires and with a very fool- 
ish page, from the home of the 
Barons of Braine. And have you 
forgotten — ” 

“ Alix ! Alix de Braine ! It is im- 
possible that I should have forgotten ! 


But that you are here is as strange 
as that I am here. Where the four 
others are, perhaps you know ! ” 

“ Chilperic is ready, my Lord.” 
This was the interruption of the groom 
at the door. 

“Chilperic is ready, and life and 
death compel me to go on. Dear 
Lady Alix, you ask me to be your 
guest. You do not know, then, that 
if I had drunk from this cup of wine, 
you would share my excommunica- 
tion ; that if I slept under this roof, 
you could never enter church again ; 
no, not to be borne there on your 
bier ! ” 

“ Did I not know it?” whispered 
the brave little woman. “ Did I not 
know that you were journeying ‘For 
the love of Christ,’ and do not my 
husband and I beg you to stay with 
us as his guest and ours? Our re- 
quest is made, and our welcome will 
be given 

‘In His Name.’” 

And they parted. 

The baron had already left the 
hall. When the priest stepped into 
the court-yard, and as he put his foot 
in the stirrup, he saw to his surprise 
that his host had already mounted 
another horse, and was waiting for 
him, himself ready equipped for a 
winter’s expedition. A heavy fox- 
skin jacket had been thrown over the 
dress, none too light, which he wore 
before, and he had in the moment of 
his absence drawn on riding boots 
also. 

The father acknowledged the cour- 
tesy, but expressed his unwillingness 
to give to his host such trouble. He 
was glad of his company, he said, 
but really he needed no protection. 

“ Protection ! I think not, while 


42 


In His Name. 


you are on or are near the territory 
of Montferrand.” This was the 
baron’s reply, with the addition of 
one or two rough oaths, untranslata- 
ble either into our language or into 
the habit of this page, but such as, 
it must be confessed, shot like a sort 
of lurid thread into the web-work of 
all the poor man’s conversation. “ I 
should not like to see poacher or 
peasant who would say a rough word 
to any man whom he saw riding on 
one of my horses. No, my father, 
it is not to protect you that I ride, 
but to talk with you. We hill barons 
are rough fellows, as I said, but we 
are not the clowns or the fools that 
the gentry of the chapter choose to 
think us. Meximieux hero has tried 
to cheat me about the fish, and has 
sent his falcons after my herons a 
dozen times, so that I have not 
spoken to him or to his for fifteen 
years before he went off on this Holy 
Land tomfoolery, — I beg your rever- 
ence’s pardon for calling it so. But 
I will say of Meximieux himself, that 
he is neither clown nor fool, and if I 
were to have to strike at King Saladin 
or any of his Emirs, I had rather 
Meximieux were at my side than. any 
of the dandy-jacks I saw the day 
the bridge went down. We are rough 
fellows, I say,” — and here he tried 
to pick up the thread which he had 
dropped a long breath before, but 
he tried not wholly successfully, — 
“ we are rough fellows, I say ; but 
when a man of courage and of heart 
like your reverence comes to see us, 
and that is none too often, we are 
glad to learn something of what he 
has learned, and we would fain an- 
swer his questions if he have any to 
put to us.” 

“ But I must say to you, my Lord, 
as I said to the Lady Alix, that to 
help me on my way is to put your- 


self under the ban. I was recog- 
nized within this hour by two of 
the monks in the abbey of Cornillon 
yonder, old and intimate friends of 
mine. Perhaps they will not de- 
nounce me, but the first fishermen 
we meet may, or the first shepherd’s 
boy. For I have trudged up and 
down this valley too often for me to 
be a stranger here. It is not fair 
that I should expose you, for your 
courtesy, to the punishment which 
is none too easy upon me.” 

u Punishment be ! ” said the 

baron, with an oath again. Nor did 
the excellent man even condescend 
to the modern foolery of asking the 
clergyman’s pardon for such excesses, 
— “it is no great punishment to a 
hill baron to tell him that he shall 
never enter a church. It is some 
little while since I have troubled 
them, even now. And if it should 
happen that this old carcass should 
rot on the hill-side where it happens 
to fall, why that is neither more nor 
less than is happening this very winter 
to many a gallant fellow who went on 
their fool’s errand — I beg your par- 
don — against the Saracen. To tell 
the truth, sir, I want to talk about 
this very business, — of your pun- 
ishment, as you call it, and of what 
I and other good fellows are to do, 
who hold that you and your friends 
are right, and that the soup-guzzling, 
wine-tippling, book-burning, devil- 
helping gowned men down in tho 
city yonder are all wrong.” It was 
with a good deal of difficulty that ho 
worked through this long explana- 
tion, even with the help which his 
swearing seemed to give him. But 
there could be no doubt that he was 
very much in earnest in making it. 
He seemed to be helped by the tre- 
mendous pace at which the two horses,, 
who had been caged in the stables 


In His Name. 


43 


for two or three days, were taking 
them over a stretch of level road. 

u I do not know what I can tell 
you,” said the priest, who seemed to 
be as little disturbed as the baron 
was by the rapidity of their pace, 
and rode as if he had been born on 
horseback. 44 I cannot tell you what 
to do, because I hardly know what 
I am to do myself — except wait. 
I wait till the good Lord shall open 
brighter days, as in His Day he will. 
Meanwhile, from day to day, I do 
what my hand finds to do, 4 For the 
Love of Christ, ’ or 

4 In His Name.’ ” 

44 All very fine of you, my Fa- 
ther,” said the other, a little chas- 
tened perhaps by his temperance of 
tone. 44 All very fine of you, who 
have something to do for the 4 love of 
Christ.’ You can go hither or thith- 
er, and every man has, as my wife 
Alix there had, some story to tell of 
the cure you have wrought or the 
comfort you have given. But that is 
nothing to me. It is not every day 
that I have a chance to beard the 
damned rascals in their own hell- 
hole, by giving a horse from my 
stables to one of these men they are 
hunting. I wish to God it were ! ” 
And the baron’s rage rose so that he 
became unintelligible, as the horses 
forged along. 

When the priest caught his drift 
again, he was saying, 44 If it had not 
been such damned nonsense, all 
nursery tales and chapman’s stuff 
and priest’s gabble, — I beg your par- 
don, sir, — I would have left the whole 
crew of them. Thirty men in good 
armor can I put on horseback, Sir 
Priest, and though they should not 
be all as well mounted as is your 
reverence, yet not one of the dogs 
should cross a beast but was better 


than those which that hog of a Mex- 
imieux rode and led, when he fol- 
lowed the Archbishop to the Holy 
Land., Enough better,” he added, 
with a chuckle, 44 than that waddling 
oil-sack that I saw the Archbishop 
himself ambling out of Ljmns upon. 
I tell you I would have gone to theses 
wars gladly, if I could have thought 
there were fewer Archbishops in the 
armies, and more men with heads' 
upon their shoulders. But I told 
Alix, said I, they are all fools that' 
are not knaves, and all knaves that- 
are not fools; and, if King Saladin 
eats them all, the world will be the' 
better for it. No matter for them, 
your reverence. Now the Arch- 
bishop is gone, could not a few of 
us, — perhaps Servette yonder, Blon f 
I think, and very likely Montluel, 
no matter for names, — suppose 
we put two hundred good men in 
saddle, and take down as many more 
spearmen with tough ash lances. 
Suppose we raised a cross of our 
own, such a cross as this, your rev- 
erence,” and he made the criss-cross- 
sweep up and down, and then from 
right to left, by which all these affili- 
ated men and women denoted the 
cross of Malta. Suppose we rode 
into Lyons some moonlight evening, 
shouting that we came 44 For the Love 
of Christ,” do you not think that 
there are as many stout weavers and 
dock-men and boatmen, and other 
good fellows there, who would turn 
out 

4 In His Name ’ ? ” 

Then when he saw that the priest 
did not answer, he added, 44 1 tell 
you, Father, we would send their 
seneschals and their viguiers and 
their couriers and their popinjay 
men-at-arms scattering in no time; 
we would smoke the old pot-bellied 


44 


In His Name. 


out of their kitchens and refectories, 
and we would bring the Poor Men of 
Lyons home to their own houses, to 
the House of Bread and the House 
of God, quite as quick as they were 
driven out.” All this, with a scat- 
tered fire of wild oaths, which added 
to the droll incongruity of what the 
good fellow was saying. 

If John of Lugio had been a mere 
ecclesiastic, he would have said, 
“ Ah, my friend, they who take the 
sword must perish with the sword.” 
And then the poor baron, who had 
perhaps never spoken at such length 
in his life before, would have shrunk 
back into his shell, cursed himself 
for a fool and his companion for 
another, and never would have un- 
derstood why an offer so promising 
was refused. But John of Lugio 
was not a mere ecclesiastic, nor was 
tie any other sort of fool. He was a 
man of God, indeed, but he showed 
in this case, as in a thousand others, 
•as in his whole life he showed, that 
be knew how to tell God’s messages 
to all sorts of men. 44 My Lord,” said 
he, “ perhaps you are right in think- 
ing that these kings and barons and 
archbishops and bishops, and all the 
rest of the pilgrims who have gone 
to the Holy City, will never get there. 
Perhaps you are right in thinking 
that if they ride down fifty thou- 
sand Saracens and burn the houses 
of fifty thousand more, they will not 
teach the Saracens any very good 
lesson of God’s love or of God’s 
son. I believe you are right, or I 
would have gone when my old friend 
the Archbishop went. But suppose 
we rode into Lyons in the same fash- 
ion ; suppose we drove out the chap- 
ter, as the chapter drove us out ; sup- 
pose we stole their horses, as they 
stole ours,— why all the world would 
have a right to say worse things of 


the 4 Poor Men of Lyons,’ than it has 
ever said till now. No ! no ! my 
Lord,” he said, after a moment; 
44 leave it to time and to the good God 
above there. No fear that this arch- 
bishop will prosper too lcng, or this 
chapter ; and for me, what more can 
I ask than as good a friend as I have 
found this day? And for 3^011, what 
more can you ask than such a home 
as Montferrand, and such a wife as 
the Lady Alix ? ” 

But the baron was hardly disposed 
to turn off, with a laugh, the plan 
which seemed to him so promising. 
He began upon it again ; he even 
showed to his friend that he had 
thought it out in detail. He knew 
how large a guard was here and how 
large there ; how many of the best 
men-at-arms were in Syria with the 
Archbishop ; and how poor were the 
equipments of those who were left at 
home. 44 In old times,” he said, 
“the Count of Forez would have 
been at our backs, but now, who 
knows but he would strike a stout 
blow on our side? There is not a 
man this side Marseilles who would 
be more glad than he to see these 
black-bellied hornets smoked out of 
their hives.” 

The Father listened as courteously 
as before, but as firmly. He seemed 
to think that a little authority might 
well be exerted now, and he said 
simply : 44 My Lord, I warn you that 
you are thinking of what jou must 
not think of. If what you propose 
were the right thing to do, you would 
have been warned of it before now 
by those in authority. Till you are, 
and till I am, we must let monks, 
priests, and bishops alone.” 

And Montferrand supposed, per- 
haps he supposed rightly, that some- 
where the “Poor Men of Lyons ” had 
a council and a master, wiser than he 


In Ilis Name. 


45 - 


was, who would some day give him a 
signal when he might gallop on this 
road on the back of Chilperic, with 
every man whom he could put in the 
saddle, ready for a raid into Lyons. 
The baron was not yet trained enough 
in trusting Providence to know that 
the only authority to which John of 
Lugio would ever defer, was an au- 
thority far above chapter, archbishop, 
king, or pope. 

He turned the subject, therefore, a 
little uneasily, to the eternal ques- 
tion of the crusade. Did his rever- 
ence think the troopers would soon 
be home again? and did he think 
they would find the sword of Saladin 
so weak ? and all the other questions 
of the home gossip of the day. 
Meanwhile, on all the road which 
did not absolutely forbid speed, the 
two horses flew along, much as Barbe 
Noire had flown that morning, and 
with no such fatal issue. The ride 
was a short one, indeed, before they 
entered the court-yard of the Castle 
of Meximieux. Here was the horse 
of Gualtier of the Mill, saddled, 
bridled, and waiting for his rider. 

“ Sixteen years since I saw the 
inside of this court!” said Mont- 
ferrand, as he swung himself off his 
horse, and as he wiped his forehead. 
“The tall tree yonder has been 
planted since then. As I remember 
the court, my man, there was not a 
green twig in it.” 

The servant bowed, and said that 
the trees which the baron saw had 
all been there when he came into the 
stable service, but, as the baron saw, 
they were not very old. 

“ Sixteen years ! ” said the rugged 
old chief again. “It was fifteen 
years ago at Michaelmas that I asked 
Meximieux if he would make the fish 
good to me, and he swore he would 
do no such thing. And I have not 


spoken to him from that day to this 
And now he is lying under some 
fig-tree yonder, and I am standing 
in his castle court. Your rever- 
ence, I should have said this morn- 
ing, that all the devils in hell could ... 
not bring me into the shadow of 
Meximieux’s walls. And see what 
you have done.” 

“Ah, my lord,” said the other, 
who had already mounted ; “a mes- 
senger from heaven, though he be a 
very humble one, can do a great deal 
that the devils in hell cannot do. 
And now, my lord, good-by. Give 
a poor priest’s best salutations to the- 
Lady Alix. And, my lord, when 
Meximieux comes home, win a greater 
victory than he has done. Ask him., 
if, ‘ For the love of Christ,’ he will not 
make it right about the fish, and see 
what a pilgrim like him will answer r 
1 In His Name.’ ” 

He gave the baron his hand, and. 
was gone. “As good a horseman,”' 
said the old man, “ as ever served un- 
der King Philip. And I wonder how 
many of them all are doing as good* 
service as he is this day ! ” 

Gualtier of the Mill had not exag- 
gerated the worth of the horse which 
the priest mounted, and the horse 
had never had a better rider. From 
Meximieux to Lyons, the road was* 
and is more than seven leagues, but 
the rider knew that it was by far the 
easier part of the way, and, thanks 
to Chilperic and the baron, he had 
left full half the time allotted for his * 
journey. He had the hope also, 
which proved well founded, that he 
might not have to rely on the miller’s - 
horse alone, but that he might find at 
Miribel, or some other village on the 
road, a fresh horse sent out to meet 
him by Jean Waldo. 

In this hope, he rode faster than « 
he would have dared to do, were he 1 


46 


In His Name . 


.obliged to use one horse for the whole 
Journey. A nd at a rapid rate, indeed, 
and without companionship or adven- 
ture, he came to the hamlet which 
the miller had left that morning, 
where poor Prinhac’ s enterprise had 
.come to a conclusion so untimely. 
The horse neighed his recognition of 
some of his companions, as they en- 
tered the wretched hamlet, and, in a 
moment more, the father saw Prinhac 
himself, evidently waiting for him, in 
tne shadow of the wall of the miller’s 
•garden. 

The weaver stepped forward into 
the roadway as John of Lugio ap- 
proached, and, with his little willow 
•switch, made in the air the mystic 
tsign. The priest drew bridle, and 
-the horse evidently knew that he was 
fit home. Prinhac and the priest had 
never met before. The weaver ea- 
gerty asked the other if he were the 
physician so much desired, and 
thanked God as eagerly when he 
knew that, so far, his mission had 
pot been in vain. “ I would break 
my collar-bone a dozen times, if I 
pould save my young mistress so 
easily. And there is not another 
boy on the looms or in the shops 
but would say the same thing.” He 
-told the priest hastily that he knew 
little about the girl’s disaster. He 
described to him his own route and 
progress, and the miserable accident 
by which he had been delayed. He 
Added, “ Nothing was said about 
fresh horses, but I have been watch- 
ing for them all day. You ought to 
meet some one at Miribel, or, at the 
worst, when you cross the river the 
first time.” 

The priest asked him what he could 
tell him about the girl’s illness. 

“ Nothing — nothing. I know she 
was as well as a bird at sunset ; I 
saw her and spoke to her as she came 


singing down the hill. The next I 
knew was, that my master woke me 
in the dead of the dark, and asked 
me for the love of Christ to bring to 
you this message. Forgive me, fath- 
er, but if he had asked me to do it 
for love of Mademoiselle Felicie, I 
should have done it as willingly.” 

“ Hast thou done it unto one of the 
least of these, thou hast done it unto 
me ! ” Such was the half answer of the 
priest, which, perhaps, the crippled 
weaver understood. “ I must not 
stay, my good fellow ; if I am to be 
of any use, I must go. I shall tell 
the child how faithful a messenger 
she found in you. God bless you, 
and farewell.” 

The weaver was right in supposing 
that a relay would await the physician 
at Miribel. He found there another 
of Jean Waldo’s men with another of 
his horses. The man did not, of course, 
recognize the physician, nor the horse 
he rode ; but it was not difficult for 
the priest, who was on the lookout 
for him, to persuade him that it was 
for him that Coeur-Blanc had been 
saddled. The man had left Lyons 
two hours before noon. His tidings 
of his young mistress were scarcely 
encouraging. She was no better, he 
was sure of that. The Florentine 
doctor had not left her all the day, 
nor her father or mother; he was 
sure of that. His directions were 
simply to wait for the priest at Mir- 
ibel, and to bid him mount Cosur- 
Blanc, while he was to bring home 
Barbe-Noire as soon as might be. So 
the good Father rode on alone. The 
child was alive. So far was well. 
For the rest, he had carried with him 
all day that sinking of heart which 
any man feels when he is called to 
struggle with death, only because all 
others have so far failed in that very 
encounter. 


In Ilis Name , 


47 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE TROUBADOUR. 


Freshly mounted, and well mount- 
ed too, the tired man bade the groom 
good-by, and entered on his last hour 
with that comfortable feeling which, 
even to the most tired man, the last 
hour brings. Alas ! it was the old 
story, Prinhac’s story of the morn- 
ing. He was, as it proved, in more 
danger in this last hour, than he 
had been through all the rest of the 
day. 

He was pushing over the meadows 
of* the valley at a sharp trot, when 
be met a rider coming out from the 
uity, on a sorry-looking beast, in the 
rather jaunty or fantastic costume 
which indicated that he was one of 
the trou veres, or troubadours. The 
man nodded good-naturedly, perhaps 
a little familiarly. John of Lugio, 
absorbed in the old-time memories 
which the day had renewed, acknowl- 
edged the salutation with less famil- 
iarity, but with a sort of reserved 
courtesy, taking, indeed, but little 
real notice of the traveller as he did 
so. The man pushed on cheerfully, 
but, in a moment, stopped his horse, 
turned, and scrutinized the priest 
with care, and then making a speak- 
ing trumpet of both hands, hailed 
him with : — 

“ Hola ! hola ! there ; will you halt 
a minute ? ” 

Halting was not in John of Lu- 
gio’ s schedule for that afternoon, if 
he could help himself. He heard the 
cry distinctly, but knew no reason 
why he should stop at the demand of 
a troubadour. On the other hand, he 
would not seem to avoid the other. 
He did not turn for an instant, there- 
fore ; he did not spur his horse on 
the other hand, but he let him hold 


to the sharp, rapid trot that he was 
pursuing. 

The troubadour saw his haste, and 
shouted only with the more eager- 
ness : — 

“ Hola ! hola ! there ; halt ! halt ! ” 

But the well-mounted rider swept 
along. 

The stranger screamed once more, 
but saw that the other halted his 
speed not by a second. He was, in- 
deed, out of any fair ear-shot by this 
time. 

The troubadour fairly groaned. 
He looked anxiously at the declining 
sun, and resolved, on the instant, to 
go in pursuit of the fugitive, even 
with the wretched brute which he had 
under him, who was but the poorest 
competitor in a match with Jean 
Waldo’s powerful Arab on which the 
priest was mounted. 

For the priest himself, he did not 
once turn round. It was not his part 
to show anxiety, and, indeed, he did 
not know that he was followed. But, 
if he were followed, he did not mean 
to be readily overtaken. 

There is a little elevation in the 
road, as it crosses the slope of a 
spur of one of the northern hills, 
and the moment that John of Lugio 
knew that he was shielded by it from 
the sight of any one on the flat 
ground behind, he pressed his horse 
even to a gallop, and flew over the 
ground at a speed which almost de- 
fied pursuit. Had this rate of going 
lasted he would soon have found him- 
self at the Rhone again. 

But no ; he had to draw bridle in 
less than a mile, that his unusuai 
rate of travel might not challenge 
the curiosity of the loungers in a lit- 


48 


In His Name . 


tie hamlet before him as the road 
turned. Two or three horses were 
tethered on the outside of a wine- 
shop, a boy seemed to be watching 
them, and one or two idlers stood 
by. John of Lugio hoped that he 
might get by without attracting at- 
tention. 

No! As he nodded civilly to the 
by-standers, two men, half soldiers, 
half gens-d’armes, if these modern 
words explain at all a race of officers 
now existing no longer, stepped out 
from the tavern. They were in the 
livery worn by the servants of police 
of the archbishop and chapter of 
Lyons. 

“ Where ’s your haste, my tall 
friend ? ” said the one who was rather 
the more tipsy of the two. “ Where ’s 
your haste to-da}'? Stop and have 
something — something to drink with 
Jean Gravier here. His wine is bad, 
the worst wine I ever drank, but it 
is better wine than none.” 

The priest's business at this mo- 
ment was, not to preach, nor warn, 
nor convert drunkards from the error 
of their ways, but to get to Lyons 
before sunset. He showed no sign 
of annoyance, but laughed good-na- 
turedly, and said, — 

“ Thank you kindly ; I will pay 
the scot if the rest will drink. But 
I have but just mounted at Miribel 
yonder, and I must be in Lyons be- 
fore the sun goes down.” 

“ Sun ! ” said the drunken tipstaff, 
“ sun be hanged ! The sun has two 
good hours yet in the sky, and with 
that horse of yours, you will see the 
guard long before sunset. Come and 
try Jean Gravier’ s red wine.” 

The priest would not show uneasi- 
ness. But again he declined, pro- 
posing that a stoup of wine should 
be brought out that all the company 
might share ; judging, not unwisely, 


that he should do well to enlist as 
many of them as he might upon hi3 
side. At this, another of the officers 
came out from the tavern. Unfor- 
tunately for the priest’s errand, he 
was much more sober than his com- 
panion. Unfortunately again, he was 
no foreign hireling, as the others were,, 
but was a Lyonnais born. The mo- 
ment he looked upon John of Lugio- 
he recognized him, or thought he did, 
and he addressed him in a mood very 
different from that of his noisy com- 
panions. The man looked jealously 
at Father John, as men of his craft 
were and are apt to look at all stran- 
gers. He did not drop or turn his 
eye either ; after the first glance he- 
surveyed the whole figure of the rider, 
and his horse as well. 

u You are riding one of Jean Wal- 
do’s horses,” he said, gruffly. 

“ I am,” said the priest ; “ he sent 
it out to meet me by one of his 
grooms. I left my own horse at Mir- 
ibel.” 

“ You are a friend of Jean Waldo’s,, 
then ? ” 

“I am a friend of a friend of his,” 
said the priest, with an aspect of cour- 
age and frankness, “ and I am eager 
to be in Lyons at to-morrow’s festival 
at his house. That is why I cannot 
tarry with our friends here. I must 
pay my scot and begone.” 

“ Not quite so fast,” said the offi- 
cer ; “ have you any pass to show if 
you are asked for one at the bridge ? ” 

“ Pass, — no,” said the priest, 
laughing. “ I had a pass years ago-, 
signed by the Viguier, but it was worn 
out long since, while I waited for 
somebody to ask me for it. I think 
the Yiguier will not turn out any of 
Jean Waldo’s friends. What is my 
scot ? ” he said, as if impatient, to the 
tavern-keeper. “ All the passes in 
the world will not serve me if I come 


In His Name. 


49 


to the long bridge after sundown. 
And I should be glad to be there be- 
fore the crowd.” 

The tavern-keeper took the copper 
coins which the priest paid him, and 
Father John, on his part, saluted the 
others, and turned as if he would go 
away, when the persistent officer 
stopped him. 

“Not so fast, my friend. You 
know very well that I have good right 
to question you, and yon must not 
wonder if I suspect you. If you take 
a little ride to-night with me and my 
friends here to the chateau of Mey- 
zieux where we are going, I promise 
i you as good a bed there as Messer 
Jean Waldo will give you. Then 
you can ride into Lyons with us in 
the morning, and can make a little 
i visit to the Viguier with me, before 
you go to your Christmas dinner. 
That will give him a chance to give 
you another parchment pass, and I 
am quite sure he will be glad to do 
so, unless he wants your closer com- 
pany. 

And he gave a loud guffaw of 
laughter, in which his two compan- 
ions joined. 

For the peasants and the tavern- 
keeper, they were too much accus- 
tomed to such acts of petty tyranny 
on the part of petty officials to show 
surprise. Indeed, they hardly felt it. 
John of Lugio knew that, though he 
\ might have their sympathy, they 
, would not render to him any sort 
of help if he defied in the least the 
authority of his persecutors. 

With that same unperturbed man- 
ner which he had shown all along, he 
laughed good-naturedly, and said at 
once, what was perfectly true : — 

“ The Viguier is an old friend of 
i mine, and will remember me very 
' well.” Then he added, “ Suppose I 
meet you and your friends as you 


come into town to-morrow, and go 
round there and see him. I give you 
my hand on it that I will be at the 
drawbridge at any time you name.” 

And he offered his bare hand. 

“ No,” said the other, sternly and 
slowly. “We are not such fools as 
to take men’s hands, unless to put 
handcuffs on them. You will go to 
Meyzieux with us in half an hour. 
Till then you may come into the 
house and drink with us, or you may 
stay out here and freeze, as it pleases 
you. Michel, Antoine, keep your 
eyes on him, and see that he does not 
leave.” And he turned to go into 
the tavern. But he saw that the 
priest made no resistance. On the 
other hand, he dismounted at once, 
and occupied himself in looking for 
something which had clogged the 
shoe of the noble horse which he was 
riding. 

At this moment the attention of all 
parties was engaged by the arrival 
of a new-comer upon the scene. The 
surly officer himself loitered on the 
steps of the inn, when he heard the 
clear, loud voice of the troubadour : — 

“ Who will listen yet again 
To the old and jovial strain, 

The old tale of love that ’s ever new ? 
She ’s a girl as fair as May, 

He ’s a boy as fresh as day, 

And the story is as gay as it is true." 

The voice was a perfectly clear 
and pure tenor. The air was lively 
without being rapid, and the enun- 
ciation and emphasis of the singer 
were perfect. The poor beast he' 
rode came panting into the crowd r 
his sides wet and dirty ; and the 
singer, with undisguised satisfaction,, 
sprang from his back, and threw the 
rein to a stable-boy. 

“ Your servant, gentlemen, — your 
servant, gentlemen, — are there no 
lovers of the gray science in this hon- 


50 


In His Name. 




orable company?” And in that 
clear, powerful tone he began again : 

“ Who will hear the pretty tale 

Of my thrush and nightingale, — 

Of the dangers and the sorrows that he 
met? 

How he fought without a fear 

For his charming little dear, 

Aucassin and his loving Nicolette.” 

“ A beautiful song, and a story 
that will make you laugh and make 
you cry, gentlemen, both together. 

“ Will you hear the pretty tale, 
or is it too gay for you? We are 
not always gay. We trouveres have 
fathers and mothers and sisters and 
brothers like the rest of you. We 
have to lay our little babies in the 
ground sometimes, as you do.” All 
this he said perfectly seriously and 
reverently. “We love the good 
God as you love him, and we can 
tell you the stories of the saints and 
of the prophets ; may God bless us 
all as we do so.” 

And then in a minor key, and 
with a strain wholly different, he 
•sang slowly, and almost in tears it 
seemed, — 

•“For the Love of Christ our Saviour along 
the road I came, 

And what I stop to sing you, I sing it in 

HIS NAME. ” 

It need hardly be said that John 
of Lugio caught the indication given 
to him, that this was a friend, from 
whom he had been so rashly escap- 
ing. The poor brute before him was 
still panting from the efforts which 
the rider had made to overtake Coeur- 
Blanc before he reached the trap in- 
to which the priest had fallen. In 
that the singer had failed. But none 
the less had he bravely pressed on 
and entered that trap himself. And 
by the little scrap he sang, he revealed 
himself as a friend to the other, — 
one friend who could be relied upon 


in the midst of indifferent spectator} 1 
and avowed enemies. John of Lugic 
did not dare reply, even by a glance 
The singer needed no reply, and! 
looked for no glance. He went on, 
as they all sat down in the one room 
of the tavern, as if he were rattling 
on in the fashion of his craft : — 

“ Or I have the new song, which 
won the golden violet last year. 

“ In a pretty little meadow, in a country 
that I know, 

A pretty little flower did bourgeon and did 
grow, 

Its root was in a dunghill, but day to day 
would bring 

Fresh food and fragrance to the weed, all 
through the days of spring.” 

His clear resonant voice was fairly 
triumphant as the words rolled on» 
But he stopped and said, “ Boy, bring 
me my little guitar ; if I am to sing to 
the gentlemen, I must play to them 1 
too. Only tell me what it shall be, 
gentlemen.” 

“ Let it be,” said John of Lugio, 
boldly, “ the song you sing ‘ For the 
Love of Christ and in His Name.’” 
And thus he opened his communica- 
tion with the other. 

The chief of the officers turned 
with an undisguised sneer upon his 
prisoner. “ So, said he, we are com- 
ing the godly, are we ? That *s old 
chaff for such as we, Mr. Friend’s 
friend. Sing one of your love 
songs.” 

“ Love songs be hanged ! ” said the 
keeper of the inn ; fc the girls here say 
they have heard about Nicolette and 
Aucassin till they are tired; they 
want the new song, the song of the 
violet. Can you teach it to them, 
Messer Trouvere ? ” 

“ I can sing it, and I can teach it 
too, to such apt scholars as Made- 
moiselle Anne,” said the singer, ris- 
ing and bowing as the buxom girl 


In Ilis Name. 


51 


came into the room rather shyly, with 
one or two of her village compan- 
ions. The troubadour, with some 
exercise of authority, cleared a place 
for them where he sate himself, — 


made the boys rise from their seats 
on a settle that the young women 
might have them, ran over the air 
once or twice on the guitar, and sang 
again. 


THE SONG OF THE VIOLET OF GOLD. 

i. 

In a pretty little meadow in a country that I know, 

A pretty little flower did bourgeon and did grow, 

Its root was in a dunghill, but every day would bring 

Fresh food and fragrance for the flower, all through the days of spring. 

But when the spring was over, and because it was not strong, 

The cruel wind came winding down, and did it wretched wrong, 

And then came winter’s frost, and stretched it on the earth 
Above the dirty dunghill on which it had its birth. 


n. 

By the pretty little meadow beneath the sunny skies, 

Is meant this wicked world of ours which lures us with its lies, 

For evil takes away the light of life from me and you, 

And brings us wicked tales to tell, and naughty deeds to do. 

We live along our little lives all foolish and forlorn, 

Nor turn to look a minute on the place where we were born, 

So comes it that through winding ways in which our souls are tried, 
We stumble stupid onward, with wickedness for guide. 


m. 

I say the little flower, which in the meadow grew, 

Grew fair and then grew foul, just like me and just like you : 
We ’re gayly clad and bravely fed, when first our lives begin, 
Before the enemy of man seduces us to sin. 

So God has made the sight of heaven above the sunny sky, 

As the blue flowers of spring-time bloom bright before the eye ; 
But then the fool of petty pride forgets where he was born, 
And dies the death of sinful shame, all foolish and forlorn. 


rv. 

And the dunghill where the flower did flourish and did fade, 

Is the dust of earth from which the Lord our father Adam made, 
His children’s children lived the lives of sinfulness and shame 
From which the breath of being to our fathers’ fathers came. 

We climb the mountains high, and valleys low descend, 

We toil and moil, and crowd with care our lives unto the end ; 
And when we die, all this we have is treasure thrown away, 

And nothing ’s left us for the tomb, except a clod of clay. 


52 


In His Name. 


V 

The cruel wind which bent the flower and crushed it like a weed 
I say, is grasping pride of life, — is avarice and greed, 

Which teaches us to hide our heads, and steal and cheat and lie, 
And so it is that wicked folks torment us till we die. 

And then, again, this winter wild which sweeps away the flower, 

I say is false and cruel Death exulting in his power. 

He grasps us in his hard embrace until all life is fled, 

And throws us on the dunghill, when he knows our flesh is dead. 1 


The girls were nodding to the air, 
and were much more interested in 
that, perhaps, than in the words, — 
but the leader of the gens d’armes, 
if we may again use the modern 
word, expressed his scorn for the 
whole. 

“ Bring him some wine, Jean ; wet 
his whistle for him. Dunghills and 
Death, indeed, is that the best he has 
to sing of? Give him some wine, and 
give me some ; give everybody some. 
Mr. Friend’s friend’s friend, take 
some wine to show j^ou bear no mal- 
ice. Girls ! have some wine ; all 
drink, and then let him tell us his 
love story.” 

With a good deal of bustle and 
readjustment of the company, with 
much fuss at serving wine for so 
many, these arbitrary orders were 
executed. The troubadour, mean- 
while, was thrumming on his guitar, 
— tuning it, — and striking chords, 
or trying one or another bit of the 
tune. When the Captain gave word, 
at last, that they were all ready, he 
began again with the same song, 
with which he had at first arrested 
their attention : — 

i. 

Who will listen yet again 

To the old and jovial strain, 

The old tale of love that ’s always new ? 

She ’s a girl as fair as May, 

He ’s a boy as fresh as day, 


ii. 

Who will hear the pretty tale 
Of my thrush and nightingale, — 

Of the dangers and the sorrows that they 
met ? 

How he fought without a fear, 

For his charming little dear, 

Aucassin, and his loving Nicolette. 

nr. 

For, my lords, I tell you true 
That you never saw or knew, 

Man or woman so ugly or so gray, 

Who would not all day long 
Sit and listen to the song 
And the story that I tell you here to-day. 

“THE STORY OF NICOLETTE AND 
AUCASSIN.” 

“ Now you must know, my lords 
and my ladies, that the Count Bou- 
gars of Valence chose to make war 
with the Count Garin of Beaucaire. 
And the war was so cruel, that the 
Count never let one day go by, but 
what he came thundering at the 
walls and barriers of the town, with 
a hundred knights and with ten 
thousand men-at-arms, on foot and 
on horseback, who burned all the 
horses, and stole all the sheep, and 
killed all the people that they could. 

“Now the Count Garin de Beau- 
caire was very old, and was sadly 
broken with years. Fie had used 
his time very ill, had the Count de 
Beaucaire. And the old wretch had 
no heir, either son or daughter, ex- 
cept one boy whose name was 
AUCASSIN. 


And the story is as gay as it is true. 


1 The author hastens to admit the anachronism of introducing here this little 
poem. It received the Violet of Gold in the year 1345. 


In His Name. 


53 


“Aucassin was gentle and hand- 
some. He was tall and well made ; 
his legs were good and his feet were 
good, his body was good and his 
arms were good. His hair was 
blond, a little curly ; his eyes were 
like gray fur, for they were near sil- 
ver and near blue, and they laughed 
when you looked at them. His nose 
was high and well placed ; his face 
was clear and winning. Yes, and 
he had everything charming, and 
nothing bad about him. But this 
young man was so wholly conquered 
by love, — who conquers everybody, 
— that he would not occupy himself 
in any other thing. He would not 
be a knight, he would not take arms, 
he would not go to the tourneys, he 
would not do any of the things he 
ought to do. 

u His father was very much troubled 
by this, and he said to him one 
morning : — 

44 4 My son, take your arms, mount 
your horse, defend your country, pro- 
tect your people. If they only see 
you in the midst of them, this will 
give them more courage ; they will 
fight all the better for their lives and 
their homes ; for your land and 
mine. 

“ 4 Father, ’ said Aucassin, 4 why 
do you say this to me ? 

44 4 May God never hear my prayers, 
if I ever mount horse, or go to tour- 
ney, or to battle, before you have, 
yourself, given to me my darling 
Nicolette, — my sweetheart whom I 
love so dearly. 

44 4 My son/ said the father to him, 
4 this cannot be. 

44 4 Give up forever your dreams of 
this captive girl, whom the Saracens 
brought from some strange land, and 
sold to the Viscount here. 

44 4 He trained her ; he baptized her ; 
she is his god-child. 


44 4 Some day he will give her to 
some brave fellow who will have to 
gain his bread by his sword. 

44 4 But you, my son, when the time 
comes that you wish to take a wife, 
I will give you some king’s daughter, 
or at least the daughter of a Count. 

44 4 There is not, in all Provence, a 
man so rich that you may not marry 
his daughter, if you choose. 

44 So said the old man. But Aucas- 
sin replied : — 

44 4 Alas, my father ; there is not in 
this world the principality which 
would not be honored if my darling 
Nicolette, my sweetest, went to live 
there. 

44 4 If she were Queen of France or 
of England ; if she were Empress 
of Germany or of Greece, she could 
not be more courteous or more gra- 
cious ; she could not have sweeter 
ways or greater virtues.’ ” 

At this point the troubadour nod- 
ded to the girl Anne, who, as she 
had said, knew the airs and the 
songs of the little Romance. One 
of the village girls joined her, and 
thus in trio the three sang : — 

All the night and all the day 

Aucassin would beg and pray : 

“ 0, my father, give my Nicolette to me.” 

Then his mother came to say : 

“What is it that my foolish boy can see ? ” 

— “ Nicolette is sweet and gay.” 

“ But Nicolette ’s a slave. 

If a wife my boy would have, 

Let him choose a lady fair of high de- 
gree.” 

. “ 0, no ; my mother, no ! 

For I love my darling so. 

Her face is always bright 

And her footstep ’s always light, 

And I cannot let my dainty darling go I 
No, mother dear, she rules my heart ! 

No, mother dear, we cannot part ! ” 

The commander of the squad of 
policemen had not mistaken in his 


54 


In His Name . 


estimate of the attractive powers of 
fiction, sentiment, and religion in 
such an assembly as that around the 
tavern. As the little love story went 
on with the song belonging to it, 
groups of idlers out-doors pressed 
into the great doorway of the tav- 
ern. The grooms left with the 
horses arranged that one boy only 
should hold them all ; and he, getting 
hint of what was passing, made shift 
to knot the bridles together, to fas- 
ten them all to a halter at the corner 
of the house, and to crowd in after the 
rest. From the other cottage, which 
was used as a kitchen in the estab- 
lishment, two or three more women 
appeared, — older than Anne and her 
companions, — and for these, as be- 
fore, seats were provided on a settle. 
This last arrangement made a little 
delay, but so soon as the women 
were seated, the brisk troubadour 
went on. 

“ When the Count Garin of Beau- 
caire saw that he could not drag Nic- 
olette out from the heart of Aucas- 
sin, he went to find the Viscount, 
who was his vassal, and he said to 
him : — 

44 4 Sir Viscount, we must get rid of 
your god-child, Nicolette. 

“ 4 Cursed be the country where she 
was born, for she is the reason why 
I am losing my Aucassin, who ought 
to be a knight and who refuses to do 
what he ought to do. 

“‘If I can catch her, I will burn 
her at the stake, and I will burn you 
too. * 

“ 4 My Lord/ replied the Viscount, 
4 1 am very sorry for what has hap- 
pened, but it is no fault of mine. 

44 4 1 bought Nicolette with my 
money ; I trained her ; I had her 
baptized, and she is my god-child. 

44 4 1 wanted to marry her to a fine 
young man of mine, who would glad- 


ly have earned her bread for her, 
which is more than your son Aucas- 
sin could do. 

44 4 But since your wish and your 
pleasure are what they are, I will 
send this god-child of mine away to 
such a land in such a country that 
Aucassin shall never set his eyes 
upon her again.* ” 

The little audience of the trouba- 
dour, quite unused to 44 sensation ’* 
of this sort, many of them fresh as 
children to the charm of a well-told 
story, pressed closer and closer to 
him. With the rarest of gifts, and 
that least possible to gain by study, 
the trouvere fairly talked to them 
in tones of perfect conversational 
familiarity. His eyes caught sympa- 
thizing eyes as he glanced from side 
to side of the room, and his anima- 
tion quickened, and his words became 
more confidential. At last, indeed, 
he addressed himself personally to 
the Captain ; when he was fully satis- 
fied that, in the confusion which ac- 
companied the entrance of the women, 
John of Lugio had risen from his 
quiet seat behind the inner door, and 
had, unnoticed, left the room. 

The troubadour continued in his 
most confidential narrative tone, — 

44 4 See that you do so/ cried the 
Count Garin to the Viscount, 4 or great 
misfortunes will come to you.* 

44 So saying, he left his vassal. 

44 Now the Viscount had a noble 
palace, of high walls, surrounded by 
a thickly planted garden. He put 
Nicolette into one of the rooms of 
this palace, in the very highest 
story. 

44 She had an old woman for her 
only companion, with enough bread 
and meat and wine, and everything 
else that they needed to keep them 
alive. 

44 Then he fastened and concealed 


In His Name. 


55 


the door, so that no one could go in, 
and he left no other opening but the 
window, which was very narrow and 
opened on the garden. ” 

Again the story-teller nodded to 
the two girls, and they sang all to- 
gether. 

Nicolette was put in prison ; 

And a vaulted room 
Wonderfully built and painted 
Was her prison-home. 

The pretty maiden came 
To the marble window-frame ; 

Her hair was light, 

Her eyes were bright, 

And her face was a charming face to see. 

Ho ; never had a knight 
A maid with such a charming face to see. 

She looked into the garden close 
And there she saw the open rose, 
Heard the thrushes sing and twitter, 
And she sang in accent bitter : 

O, why am I a captive here ? 

Why locked up in cruel walls ? 
Aucassin, my sweetheart dear, 

Whom my heart its master calls, 

I have been your sweetheart for this live- 
long year ! 

That is why I ’ve come 
To this vaulted room, 

But by God, the son of Mary, no ! 

I will not be captured so, 

If only I can break away, and go ! 

Then the troubadour continued : — 
44 So Nicolette was put in prison, 
as you have just heard, and soon a 
cry and noise ran through the coun- 
try that she was lost. Some said 
that she had run away ; others said 
that the Count Garin de Beaucaire 
had killed her. 

*' 4 All in despair at the joy which 
this news seemed to cause to some 
people, Aucassin went to find the 
viscount of the town. 

44 4 Lord Viscount/ he asked him, 

4 what have you done with Nicolette, 
my sweetest love, the thing in all 
the world which I love best ? 


44 4 You have stolen her ! 

44 4 Be sure, Viscount, that if I die 
of this, the blame shall fall on you. 

44 4 For, surely, it is } r ou who tear 
away my life in tearing away my 
darling Nicolette ! 

44 4 Fair sir/ answered the Vis- 
count, 4 do let this Nicolette alone, 
for she is not worthy of you ; she is 
a slave whom I have bought with my 
deniers, and she must serve as a wife 
to a young fellow of her own state, 
to a poor man, and not to a lord like 
you, who ought to marry none but a 
king’s daughter, or at least a Count’s 
daughter. 

44 4 What should you be doing for 
yourself if you did make a lady of 
this vile creature, and marry her? 

44 4 Then would you be very happy, 
indeed, very happy, for your soul 
would abide forever in hell. And 
never should you enter into par- 
adise. ’ 

44 4 Into Paradise?’ repeated Aucas- 
sin, angrily. 4 And what have I to 
do there ? I do not care to go there if 
it be not with Nicolette, my sweet- 
est darling whom I love so much. ’ 

44 4 Into Paradise ! And do you 
know who those are that go there, 
you who think it is a place where I 
must wish to go? They are old 
priests, old cripples, old one-eyed men, 
who lie day and night before the al- 
tars, sickly, miserable, shivering, half 
naked, half fed ; dead already before 
they die ! These are they who go to 
paradise, and they are such pitiful 
companions that I do not desire to 
go to paradise with them.’ 

44 4 But to hell would I gladly go ; 
for to hell go the good clerks and the 
fair knights slain in battle and in 
great wars ; the brave Sergeants-at- 
Arms and the men of noble lineage. 
And with all these would I gladly 

go.’ 


50 


In His Name. 




44 4 Stop,’ says the Viscount ; 4 all 
which you can say and nothing at 
all, are exactly the same thing ; 
never shall you see Nicolette again. 

44 * What you and I may get for 
this, would not be pleasant, if you 
still will be complaining. 

44 4 We all might be burned by 
your father’s command, — Nicolette, 
vou, and I myself into the bargain.’ 

44 4 1 am in despair ! ’ murmured 
Aucassin, leaving the Viscount, who 
was no less angry than himself. ” 

The company gathered nearer and 
nearer together, eager not to lose one 
word. Nor was any one roused from 
the interest of the story, till a new 
traveller stopped at the wretched 
tavern. 

44 Hola! hola!” he cried. 44 Is 
there no one to care for my horse? ” 

Antoine, the stable-boy, rushed 
out, and to his shame and horror all 
the horses were gone. 

But with the agony and falsehood 
of despair, he took the stranger’s 
horse, as if nothing had happened, 
and said to him : — 

44 1 will see to the horse, Monsieur, 
give j^ourself no care. Will you step 
into the house? There is the best 
trouvere singing there, who travels all 
over this country. He is telling the 
story of Nicolette. 

‘ k I will take good care of your 
horse, sir ; never fear me.” 

For poor Antoine’s only fear was, 
that the master of the newly arrived 
beast would stay outside. 

In fact that worthy did loiter a 
moment, and gave one or two direc- 
tions about his horse. Poor Antoine 
was dying to ask him if he met five 
saddled horses as he came. But he 
did not dare disgrace himself; and 
he thought, wisely enough, that if 
the stranger had seen any such cav- 


alcade, he would surely have mem 
tioned it. 

At last, by repeated solicitation, he 
induced the man to enter the tavern, 
and, with solicitude wholly unusual, 
the stable-boy drew the door to, after | 
the traveller had passed in. He 
could hear the trio again, as the 
two girls joined with the trouba- | 
dour. 

But the poor stable-boy cursed 
Nicolette and Aucassin both, with 
adjurations and anathemas which | 
they had never learned, and wished 
all troubadours were on the other 
side of the sea. If those horses 
could not be brought back before his 
master, or before the Viguier’s officer 
found they were gone, he, Antoine, 
would be well flogged before he went 
to bed. That was certain. No 
Christmas holiday for him, — that 
was certain also. And whether, at 
the beginning of a cold winter, he 
were not put in handcuffs and car- 
ried to one of those horrid prisons 
which he had heard the officers talk- 
ing of; of this the frightened boy 
was by no means certain. 

So soon as he had closed the door, 
instead of leading the hot and wet 
beast, intrusted to him, to the stable, 
as he knew he should do, he fastened 
him by the rein firmly but quickly, 
and at his best speed ran up the road, 
where he might gain the view from 
the hill, and get a survey of the 
whole meadow. 

44 For the cursed brutes,” he said, 

44 are all fastened together, wherever 
they have gone.” 

And then he reflected, with pro- 
found satisfaction, that the tale of 
Nicolette and Aucassin was very 
long, — or that one 1 of the girls had 
told him so in a whisper. Perhaps 
they would stay in the tavern longer 
than the Captain had said, if only 


In His Name 57 


the troubadour could make it enter- 
taining enough. 

Ah ! Antoine, you need not fear 
the troubadour ! He is making it as 
entertaining as he knows how, — and 
that is what he is there for, — that he 
may keep them all for the precious 
minutes that shall take Coeur-Blanc 
into Lyons. 

So Antoine pressed up the road to 
the little swell of land over which 
it passed, from which, as he ap- 
proached, John of Lugio had first seen 
the group standing at the tavern. 

The poor boy came up the hill, all 
out of breath, and scanned the wide 
meadows. A few cows here ; a stray 
traveller or two there ; clouds of 
dust on the highway, which might 
conceal this or that or something 
else, — who should say? But no defi- 
nite sign of the horses. 

The wretched boy climbed a tree ; 
but he only lost time, and saw 
nothing. lie could see that Philip 
of Fontroyes, the lame man, was 
hobbling home with his sorry cow. 

The boy rushed to meet Philip. 
Philip was very deaf, and, like other 
dull people, could not answer the 
square question put to him, till he 
knew who he was that asked it, why 
he asked it, and for what purpose he 
asked it. When he was at last se- 
cure on these points, he ventured to 
say, — 

“Horses, no horses ; no, no horses. 
There was a span of mules that a 
man with a red jerkin drove by, 
that was two hours ago. But no 
horses.” 

As Antoine knew that if Philip 
had had any eye, or any memory, he 
must have reported at least the pas- 
sage of Coeur-Blanc, and that of the 
troubadour, and that of the stranger 
whom he had just left ; three horses, 
certainly ; this assurance that no 


horses had passed on the road was 
anything but encouraging. 

Poor boy ! he looked back a mo- 
ment on the tavern ; he thought of 
the pretty, pleasant way in which 
Lulu had spoken to him only that 
morning, and of the blue ribbon he 
had ready to give to her the next 
day ; he thought, shall we confess it 
in this connection, of his own feast- 
day suit of clothes, which were in his 
box in the wretched attic where he 
slept. 

But he thought also of the flog- 
ging which was so sure if he were 
detected. He would never see Lulu 
again, nor his gay garments again! 
He looked his last on the tavern, and 
fled along the high road — away from 
it and from Lyons — as fast as his 
feet could carry him. 

The troubadour, who saw every- 
thing, saw or knew or felt or com- 
prehended the entrance of the new- 
comer, and heard Antoine as he 
closed the outer door of the tavern. 
The troubadour did not pause a mo- 
ment in his story. The stranger, 
with a courteous gesture, intimated 
that he would not interrupt it, and 
took the seat by the great fire, which 
Dame Gravier, with a good deal of 
fuss and pretence of hospitality, 
cleared for him. 

The Captain of the officers start- 
ed, as if he had perhaps dozed a lit- 
tle in the last refrain of the singers, 
but really gave some attention to the 
story-teller, as he went on without 
any pause —as the story required him 
to do — after another little song : — 

Then Aucassin went home, 

But his heart was wrung with fear 
By the parting from his dainty dear : 

His dainty dear so fair, 

Whom he sought for everywhere, 

But nowhere could he find her, far 01 
near. 


53 


In His Name. 


To the palace he has come, 

And he climbs up every stair, — 

He hides him in his room 
And weeps in his despair. 

“ 0, my Nicolette,” said he, 

“ So dear and sweet is she ! 

So sweet for that, so sweet for this, 
So sweet to speak, so sweet to kiss, 
So sweet to come, so sweet to stay, 

So sweet to sing, so sweet to play, 

So sweet when there, so sweet when 
here, 

O, my darling ! O, my dear, 

Where are you, my sweet? while I 
Sit and weep so near to die, 

Because I cannot find my darling dear.” 1 

To a modern ear it is difficult to 
give the impression of the effect of 
the long closing line, as the three 
voices, in strict unison, closed the 
little song, — with perfect spirit, run 
ning up rapidly in a whole octave, 
and closing an octave higher than the 
key-note, to which they would nat- 
urally have returned. 

The narrative then continued : — 
“ Meanwhile, I can tell you, the 
fighting went on. For the Count 
Bougars pressed hard on the Count 
Garin. He had a thousand men-at- 
arms in one camp, and he had a thou- 
sand in another. And while Aucas- 
sin was shut up in his chamber, and 
lamenting his dear Nicolette, the 
Count was bringing up great batter- 
ing-rams to hammer down the walls 
of the city.” 

“Ah, yes,” grunted the Captain, 
“let us hear about the battering- 
rams. I was sergeant in a batter- 
ing-train at Gron, myself, I was ! ” 
And he drank off another good 
draught from his tankard, and then 
droppng back in his chair, gave at- 

1 The original is very pretty, and can be guessed 
put, even by the unlearned reader : — 

“Nicolete bias esters, 

Biax venir et biax alers 
Biax deduis et dous parlers, 

Biax borders et biax jouers, 

Biax baisiers, biax acolers.” 


tention in the manner of those peo- 
ple, who can hear a preacher better 
when their eyes are closed. 

“ He brought up one battering- 
ram, with a very brave sergeant in 
charge of it, on one side the city ; 
and, on another side, he brought up 
another with two counts, and a duke 
in charge of it. 

“ At last he thought all was ready, 
and on each side of the town he 
gathered all his footmen and all his 
horsemen for the assault.” 

“ What did he want horsemen for, 
to storm a breach with ? ” growled 
the sergeant. 

“ I beg your honor’s pardon,” said 
the trouvere, who had not made the 
blunder without a purpose. “ But 
the troubadour who told this story to 
me had not seen so many sieges as 
your honor.” 

“ I should think not ; I should 
think not,” grunted the drunken 
critic, well satisfied with the success 
of his interruption, and the trouvere 
continued as confidentially as before, 
and as if the sergeant was his only 
auditor. 

“ Everybody in the city was called 
to arms to defend the walls. They 
supposed that the attack would be 
made on the eastern side, because 
the breach was there.” 

“Yes, yes,” grunted the experi- 
enced soldier, “ of course the attack 
would be made where the breach 
was.” 

And he nodded complacently upon 
the inn-keeper and upon his own 
companions, as if he would say, “ Of 
course we know more of war than 
these singing fellows do.” 

The troubadour continued : — 

“ The principal attacking party 
might have gone quite wrong had it 
been left to the dukes, but the brave 
fellow I told you of before — ” 


In His 

And it is impossible to tell what 
wonders the sergeant on his side might 
have wrought, or the duke and the 
count on theirs, in vain rivalry 
with a sergeant so puissant. For at 
this fatal moment, the horse whom 
Antoine had left to freeze, thinking 
it was quite time that his needs 
should be attended to, gave an omi- 
nous neigh. 

“ Neigh-eigh-eigh-eigh.” 

The sound rang through the crowd- 
ed room ; and Jean the inn-keeper 
himself started from his seat and 
looked around, and, seeing that all 
the servants were rushing out-doors, 
followed them. The master of the 
horse of course followed, and the 
officers ; and the troubadour and 
the girls were left in the confusion 
alone. 

“ Where’s Antoine? where ’s An- 
toine ? ” Cries of Antoine ! Antoine ! 
resounded everywhere. To tell the 
truth, the tavern was not unused to 
such clamor. Poor Antoine was 
the man-of -all- work, always sum- 
moned. 

u Don’t come out into the cold, 
sir ! ” said Jean Gravier, perfectly 
used to making up the scanty re- 
sources of his wretched tavern by 
the boldest lying. “ Go back into 
the inn, if you please. My wife has 
supper ready. Antoine has taken 
the horses to water them.” 

“ Water them ! ” said the stranger, 
with an oath ; “ and why has he not 
taken mine to groom him and give 
him a bed, as he said he would ? The 
beast is wellnigh frozen already, 
while you and your people are sing- 
ing your love-songs.” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” said Jean 
Gravier, “ I shall rub him down my- 
self.” And he led the poor wretch 
to the stable, wondering where An- 
toine was with the other horses, and 


Name . 59 

beckoning to Ode, one of the hangers- 
on, to follow. 

“ Jean Gravier, come back; what 
is all this row about, and what are 
you doing with the horses of the 
honorable men-at-arms of the Bishop 
and Chapter of Lyons ? ” 

With many oaths, some hiccough, 
and other interruptions, the Captain 
of the policemen, standing upon the 
step, thus hailed the tavern-keeper. 

J ean Gravier pretended not to hear. 

“ Come back, you dog, come back, 
and answer to the charge made 
against you.” This was the second 
appeal of the drunken fool, who 
doubted a little his own ability ter 
run after the delinquent vintner, and 
made up in grandeur of words for 
whatever failure of bodily force he 
was conscious of. 

Jean Gravier did not dare go on. 

“ For God’s sake, find the horses, 
Ode. Send Pierre up the road, and 
send Andre down ; unless, indeed, 
which God grant, that brute of an 
Antoine has had the grace to put 
them all into the stable.” 

And, with the happy thought of a 
new lie, he turned to the stranger, 
who was following him in a rage, and 
said, — 

“ I did not understand, monsieur. 
The boy has taken them all to the 
stable, it was so cold.” 

“ Took them to the stable ! Why 
did he not take mine to the stable ? 
What do I care for other people’s 
horses ? I will groom my own ! ” 

And, with little comfort, Jean Gra- 
vier was left to take the rage of the 
drunken sergeant. 

But this rage, and the rage of the 
two officers, who abetted and ap- 
plauded the threats and abuse of 
their chief, need not be written down. 
Jean Gravier bent before the storm, 
acknowledged that it was natural that 


60 


In Ilis Name . 


his guests should be indignant, but 
explained that they were wholly mis- 
taken. He repeated eagerly his lie 
that the horses were in the stable, 
praying to all the saints in the cal- 
endar that they might prove to be so. 
In a moment more, he was relieved 
from the necessity of inventing any 
more lies by a shout from Andre, who 
appeared in the roadway, leading 
out four of the five horses from be- 
hind an old mill, which stood perhaps 
a furlong along the Lyons road, in 
the direction exactly opposite that 
which Antoine had taken. 

Ah me ! if Antoine had dared ask 
the stranger if he met five horses 
saddled, he would have gone the right 
way when he did go wrong ; he would 
have found the horses ; he would 
have brought them back undetected ; 
he would have given Lulu her ribbon 
on Christmas day, and would have 
worn his own fine clothes. And now 
the poor boy is flying, as if for life, 
across the meadows. 

Andre came leading along the cof- 
fle of horses. For a moment no one 
observed that there were but four, and 
should be five ; but, the moment he 
came to the tavern with them, the 
loss of Coeur-Blanc was evident. 

“ It is that damned horse-thief 
from Meyzieux!” cried Jean Gravier, 
the tavern-keeper ; “ and he has stolen 
the best horse of them all.” And 
Jean Gravier went sadly back into 
the tavern, to think what lie he 
should invent to satisfy the quiet 
gentleman with white hair who sat 
behind the. door. 

But, as the reader knows, the quiet 
gentleman with white hair had taken 
leave long before. 


All this time he had been increas- 
ing the distance between him 
and the tavern as rapidly as Coeur- 


Blanc’s longest stride would take 
him. The sun was yet more than 
half an hour high, though he had 
lost certainly half an hour in that 
miserable altercation, and in the 
enforced delay in the tavern. 

At the moment when he found 
himself free, he had not mounted 
Cceur-Blanc ; he had only cut the 
long halter at the place where it was 
fastened to the house, and by it 
had led along the five horses together, 
as if to the trough where they were 
used to be watered. If any one 
within the room heard their tread, 
he supposed the stable-boys were 
leading them to the trough, and to 
the cover which, as evening drew 
on, they all required. As the other 
horses drank, John of Lugio mounted 
his own. Not losing his hold of the 
halter, he walked carefully two hun- 
dred yards or more into the shelter of 
a little copse and of a deserted mill. 
Here he stopped, eager for time 
though he was, and once more se- 
curely tethered them all. Then was 
it that he gave Coeur-Blanc his head ; 
and for the next fifteen minutes he 
rode like the wind. 

He understood then, what the 
reader understands, that the trou- 
badour, whose salutation he had 
acknowledged, but whose call he had 
not regarded, had been acting as his 
true friend, in an emergency when 
he had no other. 

The man was one of the affiliated 
“ Poor Men of Lyons.” That was 
made certain by the signal he had 
given. 

He had recognized John of Lugio, 
but in that uncertain way that a 
minute had passed before he was sure 
of his man. Then was it that the 
good fellow had been certain that the 
priest, whom all the “Poor Men of 
Lyons ” loved and honored, was rid- 


In His Name. 


61 


ing into danger ; and then was it that 
he had turned and hailed him, in the 
hope that he might in time save him 
from the inspection and inquiry of 
the officers, whom the troubadour 
had passed just before at the tavern* 
In truth, he had gladly evaded them 
himself; for the reputation of the 
Lyonnais officers was so bad that 
any man of peace was glad to keep 
out of the way when it was in his 
power. 

And now, as Father John saw, the 
good fellow had boldly come to the 
rescue, and had taken the chances of 
sharing his fate, that he might also 
take the chance of coming to his re- 
lief . 1 The priest did not dare think 

1 This is no place for an essay on the troubadours 
or their poetry. But the author may be permitted 
to say in a few words, that they are not to be dis- 
missed, as they are perhaps too often as if they 
had no important place in the rapid changes and 
curious development of the time in which they 
lived. Every new manuscript disinterred and 
edited in France tends to raise rather than lower 
the estimate which is to be formed of their power 
and their merit. 

It has already been said that the earliest speci- 
men of their written language which we have is a 
Scripture poem, and that they were largely occu- 
pied in giving a genera] knowledge of Scripture 
to the people. In this regard they rendered, per- 
haps. more efficient service than their successors, to 
whom we give a French name also, — the “ colpor- 
teurs.’’ 

Mr. Hallam says, “ No romances of chivalry and 
hardly any tales are found in their works.” But 
since Mr. Ilallam wrote the “ Middle Ages,” many 
of the troubadour books have been discovered and 
edited. Among them is this curious Aucassin and 
Nicolette, of which I have transferred the begin- 
ning without hesitation to my story ; because the 
critics assure us that the earlier versions of it be- 
longed to the twelfth century. 

Mr. Hallam’s estimate of the troubadour poetry is 
in these words : — 

“Their poetry was entirely of that class which 
is allied to music, and excites the fancy or feelings 
rather by the power of sound than any stimulancy 
of imagery and passion. Possessing a flexible and 
harmonious language, they invented a variety of 
metrical arrangements, perfectly new to the nations 
of Europe. The Latin hymns were striking, but 
monotonous; the metre of the Northern French 
unvaried ; but in Proven9al almost every length of 
verse from two syllables to twelve, and the most 
intricate disposition of rhymes, were at the choice 
of the troubadour. The canzoni, the sestine, all 
the lyric measures of Italy and Spain, were bor- 
rowed from his treasury. With such a command 
of poetical sounds, it was natural that he should 


he was safe himself till he crossed 
the long bridge. But he heard no* 
outcry behind him ; and every min- 
ute, as Cceur-Blanc flew, was two or 
three furlongs gained. 

Fortunately the high road was, for 
a while, quite clear of passengers ; so 
that the tremendous rate at which he 
rode challenged but little attention. 

Fifteen minutes may have passed 
before he dared take a pace less no- 
ticeable ; and by that time the spires 
of Lyons were in sight in the dis- 
tance. He satisfied himself that the 
sun was still high enough for him to* 
pass without challenge at the draw- 
bridge. And then, still keeping up 
a bold trot, he joined with one and 

inspire delight into ears not yet rendered familiar 
to the artifices of verse; and even now the frag- 
ments of these ancient lays, quoted by M. Sismondi 
and M. Ginguen^, seem to possess a sort of charm' 
which has evaporated in translation. Upon this 
harmony, and upon the facility with which man- 
kind are apt to be deluded into an admiration of 
exaggerated sentiment in poetry, they depended : 
for their influence. And, however vapid the songs 
of Provence may seem to our apprehensions, they 
were undoubtedly the source from which poetry 
for many centuries derived a great portion of its- 
habitual language.” 

Mr. Pater has published an interesting essay on 
this little romance of Aucassin and Nicolette. He 
says : — 

“ Below this intenser poetry (of Provence) there 
was probably a wide range of literature, less seri- 
ous and elevated, reaching by lightness of form and 
comparative homeliness of interest, an audience- 
which the concentrated passion of those higher 
lyrics left untouched. This literature has long since 
perished, or lives only in later French or Italian 
versions. One such version, the only representative 
of its species, M. Fauriel thought he detected in the- 
story of Aucassin and Nicolette, written in the 
French of the latter half of the thirteenth century, 
and preserved in a unique manuscript in the na- 
tional library of Paris; and there were reasons 
which made him divine for it a still more ancient 
ancestry. 

. . . “The writer himself calls the piece a- 
cante-fable, a tale told in prose, but with its inci- 
dents and sentiment helped forward by songs, in- 
serted at irregular intervals. In the junctions of the 
story itself there are signs of roughness and want 
of skill, which make one suspect that the prose was 
only put together to connect a series of songs, — a > 
series of songs so moving and attractive that peo- 
ple wished to heighten and dignify their effect by a> 
regular framework or setting. Y et the songs them- 
selves are of the simplest kind, not rhymed even, 
but only imperfectly assonant, stanzas of twenty 
or thirty lines, all ending with a similar vowels 


62 


In His Name. 


another group of those who were go- 
ing into the city, and even ventured 
to chat with some of them as to the 
festivities which were in preparation. 
The Chapter was giving more dis- 
tinction than ever to Christmas cele- 
bration, perhaps to signalize the ad- 
vantages which the people of Lyons 
and the neighborhood were to gain 
from the new arrangement of affairs, 
which made them temporal masters 
of the city and suburbs, as well as 
their spiritual guides. 

Father John felt a little sheltered 
when he rode chatting by the side of 
a well-to-do farmer, who was coming 
in by invitation to spend the holiday 
with his brother in the city. In 
front of them was a rude cart, cov- 
ered with canvass, in which were the 
farmer’s daughters and his wife. The 
talk fell, as it always did, on the 
crusade ; and the man showed ignor- 
ance of the deepest dj T e as to its 
geography and its causes, which the 
priest did his best to enlighten. 

“ And will the knights be back, 
with the heathen hounds by Easter ? ” 

“The good God knows,” replied 
the priest, reverently. 

“ Yes ; the good God knows, but 
what do you think ? They have been 
gone long.” 

“It is a long journey,” said the 
priest. 

“Not so long, though, as those 
fine Englishmen had come, I sup- 
pose?” 

“0,” said Father John, surprised 
a little, “ much longer ! ” 

“Longer than they had come? 

sound. And here, as elsewhere in that "early poe- 
try, much of the interest is in the spectacle of the 
formation of a new artistic sense. 

“ A new music is arising, the music of rhymed 
poetry, and in the songs of Aucassin and Nicolette, 
which seem always on the point of passing into 
true rhyme, hut which halt somehow, and can never 
quite take flight, you see people just growing aware 
of the elements of a new music in their possession, 


Why did they cross the sea at all 
then ? Why not go by land ? ” 

Father John explained that Eng- 
land was on an island ; that if the 
king of England left his dominion 
at all he must cross the seas. 

“ And do King Saladin, and the 
foul fiend Mahomed, — do they live 
on another island? I believe,” said 
the stout farmer, “ I should have 
gone to the Holy War myself, if I 
could have gone by land.” 

Father John exclaimed again that 
the Holy City was not on an island ; 
that it could be reached by land. 

“ In the old war,” said he, “ many 
of the knights went by land. They 
rode their good horses all the way. 
But so many perished that the kings 
have taken ship this time, to go 
thither more quickly.” 

“ O ! ” cried his friend, “ they are 
all wrong. Many men would go by 
land who never would go by sea. I 
am one. Philippe there is two. Jean, 
Hubert, Joseph, — I could tell you 
seven men who would go were there 
no sailing.” 

The priest listened kindly, but 
the pace to which the good farmer 
held him was such that he dared not 
loiter long. He bade him good-by, 
and pressed on, to join one and 
another group of people, who were 
attracted in the same way to the city. 

But always he was expecting to 
hear the challenge from behind of 
the Viguier’s officers. 

The last obstruction of all was, as 
he waited in a corner of the road, 
that a company of a hundred or more 

and anticipating how pleasant such music might 
become. 

“ The piece was probably intended to be recited 
by a company of trained performers, many of 
whom, at least for the lesser parts, were probably 
children. The songs are introduced by the rubric 
‘Or .se cante,’ ‘ici on chante,’ and each division 
of the y'-ose, by the rubric, ‘ or dient et content et 
fablioienv,' ‘ ici on conte.’ ” 


In His Name . 


63 


mounted soldiers might march past 
him, who were the men for whom 
his persecutors had ridden in ad- 
vance, that they might provide their 
quarters for the night at Meyzieux. 
The priest waited till the last of 
them had gone, and then boldly 
crossed the causeway over the 
meadow before they came to the tem- 
porary bridge, where he was to pass 
the Rhone for the last time, — the 
bridge which poor Prinhac had 
crossed so fortunately in the morning. 
The sun was glowing, red and angry, 
above the height of Fourvieres, and 
Father John had again so far relaxed 
the rate of speed to which he had 
held the horse, that his more deco- 
rous trot did not attract the atten- 
tion of the town-servants, who were 
farmers’ boys, and were going out of 
the town that they might enjoy the 
festival of the next day at their fath- 
ers’ homes, or that of the groups of 
peasants who were pressing in to see 
the great solemnities by which the 
chapter celebrated the Saviour’s birth, 
and amused their subjects at the same 
time. There were, indeed, so many 
of these parties now, and they pro- 
ceeded at a rate so confidently slow, 
that, had the priest any doubt 
whether he should find the gates 
open, the number of travellers would 
have reassured him. 

At the bridge itself, there was not 
even the pretence of any examination 
or detention. So many of the towns, 
people and of the peasants were pass- 
ing in or passing out, that it seemed 
to be taken as an exceptional day, 
when the usual forms of military order 
might be relaxed, and the sentinel, 
who was lazily sitting on a bench by 
the portcullis, with his halberd lying 
by his side, did not so much as chal- 
lenge the passers-by. Father John, 
who had heard from Prinhac the story 


of the secret of his passage, looked 
rather curiously into the face of this 
man, and of his officer also, who was 
lounging in the guard-house behind 
him. But he recognized neither of 
them. They certainly were none whom 
he had known among the clients of 
his “ Poor Men of Lyons,” and prob- 
ably both belonged to some hireling 
company of soldiers whom the chap- 
ter had imported from another prov- 
ince. 

The priest had picked his way 
across the bridge slowly and with cau- 
tion, and now entered upon ground 
where every house was familiar to 
him, and had some story of grief or 
joy in his old memories. The streets 
were more alive than usual, because 
the Eve of the Festival of Christmas 
was almost as much a holiday as was 
the Christmas day proper. And Fath- 
er John was well aware, that, had he 
been dressed in the proper uniform 
of his profession, any fifth person he 
met would have recognized him as 
one of the proscribed men. Recog- 
nition was dangerous at the best; 
but tonight an arrest by some offi- 
cer of the Viguier would make delay 
long enough to defeat any hope of 
his rendering the service he had been 
sent for. He had therefore, in the 
little distance left to him, as he 
threaded the streets of the town, a 
greater risk to run than he had in- 
curred the whole day through. Ilis 
risk was his patient’s risk, and he 
must avoid it as best he could. 

The priest looked eagerly among 
the groups of people who were gath- 
ered at the street corners, in the hope 
that there might be some one known 
to him as belonging to the affiliated 
“ Poor Men of Lyons,” whom he 
should dare withdraw from the crowd 
by a signal, who would take the well- 
known horse he rode quietly to its 


64 


In His Name. 




master’s stables, while he himself the fear of the Courier was stronger ; 
found his way to the house on foot, and the second boy answered, with a 
and so escape observation. But the coarse oatl\, that the traveller had 
handful of the “ Poor Men ” who were better take his own horses, and groom 
in Lyons did not care much for such them too. And both these precocious 
street gatherings, nor, indeed, were young rascals, as if they were com- 
they greatly interested in such cel- promising the dignity of Lyons by 
ebrations of Christmas as the Abbot so long talk with a dusty country- 
had prepared. The priest was obliged man, then gave a loud battle howl i 
to turn from the public square into a known to the other gamins of their 
narrow by-street, less crowded with section, and rushed wildly to the 
curious idlers. He dismounted from square, from which John of Lugio 
his horse, and led him by the bridle, had just now turned. Two smaller 1 
and so approached a group of bo}-s boys, who made the rest of the group, 
who were lounging in the open gate- seemed disposed to follow them, when 
way of a tradesman’s courtyard. He the priest, perhaps because he must 
held out a copper coin in his hand, run some risk, perhaps because the 
and said, “ Which of you will take purer faces of these boys attracted 
my horse across the little bridge for him, bent down, and said, almost in 
me ? This is for him.” a whisper, “ Could you take this horse 

“ That is not your horse. That is to Jean Waldo’s ‘for the love of 
Messer Jean Waldo’s horse, and no Christ’?” 

one rides him honestly, but Jean “ I will go anywhere,” said the 
Waldo or his groom.” brave fellow, clambering into the sad- 

This was the impudent reply of the die, “ when I am summoned 
largest boy of the group. And all of < In Hig ^ AME> » » 

them seemed, not indifferent to his 

money, but afraid of the errand. To “ You are to say, boy, that he who 
be found with a stolen horse, as Lyons was sent for is close at hand.” 
was then governed, might cost any u I am to say, that he who was 
boy his Christmas holiday, and, very sent for is close at hand. Farewell.” 
likely, more. The boy was gone ; and the priest, 

The priest’s imperturbable balance through court-yard and arched ways 
did not leave him. “ It is Jean where he could not have ridden, has- 
Waldo’s horse, and it is to Jean tily crossed the peninsula, crossed 
Waldo’s stable that I ask you to take the bridge which spanned the nar- 
him. Do I not pay enough ? ” Here rower river of the two, and, in two 
is another of the Archbishop’s cro- or three minutes after the boy had 
ziers. And he took out another piece given warning of his approach, he 
of money. met Giulio the Florentine at Jean 

The bribe was a temptation. But Waldo’s door. 


CHAPTER IX. 

CHRISTMAS EVE. 

The master and his pupil fell on other without one word. It was five 
each other’s necks, and kissed each years since they had met, and com- 


In His Name . 


65 


nmnication by letter or by message 
was most infrequent. And then the 
first wolds of both were for their pa- 
tient. 

“ How does she bear herself?” 
These were the priest’s first words. 

“She is living. At least I can 
say that. I do not know if I can say 
anything more. At every hour her 
pulse is quicker and weaker, and her 
breathing worse. But there are now 
hardly any of the convulsions of 
agony. Do you remember that night 
with the boatmen at Anse ? This girl 
has suffered as those men did not 
suffer.” 

“ Does she know you?” 

“ She knows no one, and no thing. 
But she talks now to her ‘ dear moun- 
tain,* now to some old lame beggar, 
now to King Saladin, now to her 
cousin Gabrielle.” 

“ She is living over the life of the 
hour before she took the drug. That 
is the way with these poisons.” 

These few words passed as they 
entered and crossed the court-yard, 
and mounted the stairway to the poor 
sufferer’s pretty room. 

In that day of the infancy of med- 
ical science, the distinctions among 
poisons now observed were quite 
unknown, even to the most learned. 
Poisons are now distinguished as 
irritants, narcotics, narcotic acrid, 
or septic, according as they act, 
by one or another method of injury 
on the human organization. The 
wild hemlock-like parsley, which 
grows abundantly in the meadows of 
Southern France, and which had been 
so carelessly substituted for some in- 
nocent root by Goodwife Prudhon, is 
one of the poisons known as narcotic 
acrid. In the eagerness of Mistress 
Waldo to make her preparation 
strong, she had even let the powder 
of the root itself remain in her de- 


coction ; and the child, in her consci- 
entious desire to do all her mother 
wished, even because the medicine 
was so nauseous, had, alas, drank all 
the drugs of the preparation , as well 
as the more innocent liquid. The 
Florentine would be called only an 
empiric by the science of to-day ; that 
is to say, only a person who acts on 
the remembrance of the results of his 
observations. He would himself have 
confessed that he was little more. 
But his observations had been wide 
and intelligent. Since he was a child,, 
the laws of life, and the methods of 
life, had fascinated him. And what 
he had seen of sickness and of health 
he had noted with absolute precision, 
and he had remembered thoroughly. 
When he wrote to his master that he 
suspected that the women had mixed 
one of the poisonous mushrooms of 
the valley of the Rhone in with their 
hemlock-brewing, it was because he 
had already detected symptoms, which 
were not to be accounted for, by the 
mere action of the root which he had 
identified in the mother’s stores. 
These anomalous symptoms had, 
through the day, asserted themselves. 
And the Florentine, as it would seem r 
had varied his treatment somewhat 
from that with which he began. None 
the less, however, was the patient 
sinking. The balance and force of 
her admirable constitution, and her 
life of perfect purity, asserted them- 
selves all along. But every symp- 
tom showed that she had less strength- 
with every hour. 

John of Lugio came to the bed- 
side, and received silently, with a. 
kind bow, the eager and profoundly 
respectful salutation of the child’s* 
father. Jean Waldo was surprised 
indeed. It seemed that this master 
of the young Giulio, this man so much 
hoped for and longed for, in this day 


66 


In His Name. 


of agony and of prayer, was one of 
those daily companions of his kins- 
man, Peter Waldo, whom he had, 
fifty times, seen with him at his home 
or at his store-house. For all of 
those companions, Jean Waldo’s con- 
tempt had been even more bitter than 
that with which he regarded his kins- 
man. For he looked upon these men 
as being the tempters who lured the 
merchant into the follies outside his 
vocation. And now, as God ordered, 
it "was this very man for whom he 
had sent his servants and his horses, 
for whom he had defied the law of 
Lyons, and for whose coming he 
had been hoping and praying all 
that day ! 

Madame Waldo rose from her chair 
at the bedside, and yielded it to the 
stranger, with a respectful courtesy. 
But, for a minute, no word was spoken 
in the room. 

The new physician did not put his 
chilled hand upon pulse or forehead. 
He bent his ear close enough above 
the child’s heart to listen to her faint 
breathing. He tried to catch the 
odor of her breath as it passed from 
her nostrils. He brought the candle 
closer to her that he might note the 
complexion of her face ; and even 
threw it upon the open and rather 
rigid eye, which looked ur»nn him so 
unnaturally. 

Then he turned to his pupil, and 
asked in detail what he had tried to 
do for her. 

The reader knows something of 
this already. Madame Waldo and 
her neighbors knew enough of the 
not mistaken medical practice of their 
time, to give to the suffering child 
full potions of oil stirred in with hot 
water as soon as they found that she 
had swallowed poison. Nor had they 
been unsuccessful in relieving her 
stomach from much of the decoction, 


and from a part even of the dregs 
of the draught which she hapl taken. 
But, as Giulio had found, the root 
and whatever was mingled with it 
had so long lodged themselves in her 
system, that the poison was, in a 
measure, absorbed by her organiza- 
tion ; and the convulsions which made 
her father and mother so miserable, 
were the proof that they had not suc- 
ceeded in removing all or most of the 
cause of her suffering. 

“ The convulsions never lasted 
long,” said the young man to his 
master, “ but they left her deadly pale, 
her face all haggard, and they came 
again as if we did nothing. Once 
and again I found it hard to open 
her mouth, so firmly set were her 
jaws. I have been all day long keep- 
ing up this warmth and rubbing, on 
which the women had begun. Her 
pulse seemed to me so exceptional, 
that at noon, and again three hours 
after noon, I ventured to draw blood, 
which we have saved for you to see. 
It is here. And it is now six 
times, at intervals of an hour perhaps, 
that I have given to her this bone- 
black which I had ready. I made it 
myself by the burning of sea-gulls’ 
bones, and I know that it is unmixed, 
and that there is no vegetable in it. 
But whether it has absorbed any- 
thing, I dare not say. I have hesi- 
tated about giving wine to one from 
whom I was drawing blood. But 
when I could hardly find her pulse, 
and could hardly see her breath upon 
the mirror, I gave her Bourdeaux 
wine, such as you see here, and it 
seemed to me to do no harm. I 
renewed this twice therefore. And 
I have given her also, three or four 
times to-day, this camomile which 
her mother has served for me.” 

The Master nodded sympatheti- 
cally, in approval or in assent, ana, 


In His Name . 


67 


when his pupil showed to him the 
camomile, drained the bowl himself. 
He returned it to Dame Waldo with 
a smile, the first smile which anyone 
had seen in that room for twenty-four 
hours, and the first indication which 
he had given that he was not wholly 
discouraged by the situation. The 
mother at least was encouraged. The 
new physician had thus entered on 
his work at that point, which is by 
no means the least important of a 
physician’s duties, the care of the 
family of his patient. The good 
woman suddenly recollected that a 
man who had ridden fifteen leagues 
on a winter day, might be in want of 
some refreshment, and, only delighted 
that there was anything that she 
could do, retired instantly to her 
maids and her kitchen, to 'do what 
she then reflected she should have 
done before, and take order for his 
evening meal. 

John of Lugio himself crossed to 
the open fireplace, and sat opposite 
the blaze, warming his cold hands 
over the embers. He asked the young 
Florentine one and another questions, 
called, himself, for the barks and 
leaves which the women had used in 
their pharmacy, and w r hich still lay 
on broad salvers in a little antecham- 
ber. So soon as he was sure that his 
cold touch would not chill the girl, 
he went back to the bedside, assured 
himself as to the circulation in her 
feet and hands, listened at the beat- 
ing of the heart, and noted the wiry 
pulsation of her wrists, and then with 
his own hand poured into the silver 
cup five times as much of the wine of 
Bordeaux as his pupil had dared to 
use. He then administered the whole 
draught to the girl, with a practised 
hand, and a sort of command in his 
manner which, even in her torpor, she 
obeyed. 


“ Do not disturb her. Let her 
lie,” he said. And they both with- 
drew again to the fire. 

“ You relieve me more than I can 
say,” said the young man. I have 
been haunted all the afternoon with 
the remembrance of Gerbert’s ax- 
iom — ” 

“ Which you have had the good 
sense to violate. Perhaps the child 
owes her life to your rebellion. The 
Pope Sylvester has learned some- 
thing since he wrote out his axioms, 
and you and I must not be frightened 
by dead popes more than by living 
ones.* Your stimulant has done her 
no barm that I can see. And if she 
is to rally, we must help her if we 
can. Let me see your hamper there, 
and let us be ready to follow up your 
treatment with some elixir a little 
more prompt than my good friend’s 
sour wines.” 

The blackamoor drew to the side 
of the fireplace a small table, and 
with his master’s help brought from 
the basket a varied collection of 
flasks and bottles, which he set in 
order on it. The master looked at 
the labels on these in their order, — 
sometimes unstopped a flask and 
poured a few drops into the hollow of 
his left hand, and tasted them, set 
aside two of the phials, and then 
bade the black repack the others, and 
take them all away. Then turning to 
Giulio with a renewal of the sweet 
and half-quizzical smile, which had 
lighted up his face when he drank off 
the potion of camomile, he said, 
“ Have you gone back into the dark 
ages? I have not seen such medi- 
cines since our great Bernhard died, 
because he had no better. I should 
think we were Adam and Eve in 

*Gerbert, distinguished as a Frencu 
naturalist, was afterwards Pope Sylvester 
the Second. 


68 


In His Name. 


Paradise, and that Adam drank what 
Eve brewed.” 

“ Dear master,” said the Floren- 
tine, “ remember where you are, and, 
first of all, speak lower. We are in 
the Dark Ages again, and, under the 
shadow of this cathedral, we are in 
the darkest centre of the dark ages. 
Wiry, my dear master, to speak of 
Averroes in any presence where one 
should be reported to the Courier, 
would be to sign the order for one’s 
own exile to your mountains. And, 
though I might speak of Abulcasis, 
it is because no one in Lyons but 
yourself has ever heard of his name. 
No, we are to live and die by Eve’s 
simples, exactly as we are to be saved 
or to be damned by Pope Alexander’s 
theology. I have hoarded my essen- 
ces and elixirs, drop by drop. And 
ttie little phials you have set aside 
here, are all that are left of the stores 
I rescued, the day when the tipstaves 
of the Yiguier emptied your work- 
room into the street. I would fain 
have carried away your precious 
alembics, but the Archbishop’s men 
were before me, and they all went to 
the palace.” 

“ To the palace?” 

“ I suppose they went to the pal- 
ace ; perhaps they went to the dung- 
heap ; perhaps they went as a pres- 
ent to Muley Pasha. There is not a 
man in Lyons outside this room who 
knows their inestimable worth, nor 
how to handle them ! ” 

“To the palace?” said Father 
John again, quite regardless of his 
pupil’s last words, and almost as if he 
were dreaming himself. “To the 
palace ! yes ; to the palace ! ” Then 
he turned to Madame Gabrielle, who 
came in gently, and placed on the 
disencumbered table at his side a 
salver covered with a napkin and 
crowded with warm drinks, savory 


soup, and meat hot from her broiler. 

“ I hope your worship is not faint," 
she said. 

“ My worship is better,” he an- 
swered, with that same tender smile, 

“ because I think that your darling 
here is no worse. Such prayers as- 
you have offered for her, and, I think* 
such prayers as she has offered for 
herself, are profiting her well, and 
such care as you and my friend have, 
given her this day, are fit compan- 
ions to such prayers.” As he spoke 
these gentle words, none the less did 
the physician-priest turn to the po- 
tage which the good dame had pre- 
pared for him. And he ate it with 
the appetite, not of a scholastic, but 
of a hunter or a soldier. As he ate* ; 
he went on in his talk with the Flor- 
entine, wholly regardless of the pres- 
ence of the mother, who stood with 
her napkin on her arm as if she 
were a servant, noting every spoon- 
ful and every salt-grain of his hasty 
repast. 

“ To the palace, you say — to the 
palace ! Do you mean to tell me, ; 
Giulio, that there is nobody here who 
cares for the Eternal Truth of things ? 

Is there nobody who cares for the 
way God made the world? Where 
are all the old set — Lambert, Eti- 
enne, Suger, Montereau, Marly, and 
le Laboureur — where are they all? 
And your friends, the ‘ sacred five/ 
as you youngsters called yourselves? ! 
Alas ! I answer my own question, j 
Etienne and Marly were dead before 
the bad times came. Lambert and 
Suger are in Bohemia with our friend, 
because these people here know not 
The Truth, and The Truth knows 
them not. Montereau, they told me, 
went to the Holy War. He will 
come back, knowing something more 
perhaps. Would God they all had 
gone thither with as noble purpose I ” 


In His Name, 


69 


“ And le Laboureur, sir, has 
burned his books and broken his in- 
struments, and joined the Benedic- 
tines yonder in Cornillon. Of the 
sacred five you asked for, I only am 
left to tell you. George is under the 
Mediterranean. Hugh is with the 
Emperor, the others are at Acre, I 
hope, — they are in the East, as I 
had wellnigh been myself this day. 

“No, my master ; Lyons, I tell 
you, is the darkest spot of the Dark 
Ages.” 

The nurse at the bedside spoke at 
this moment, and the priest crossed 
to his patient. The child was more 
restive, and her stomach seemed 
likely to reject the draught which 
he had given her. He gave to her 
mother some direction as to her po- 
sition, and the clothes upon her stom- 
ach, and, with quite another tone, 
•came back to his pupil. “ Give her 
thirty drops from this,” he said, giv- 
ing to him one of the reserved phials 
upon the table, “ but it is a sin that 
we must poison her with sour 
wine, when we want to give her an 
•elixir. Do you tell me that if love 
will not give us two hundred drops of 
the Elixir of the formula of Arnauld 
or Abulcasis, money will not do it? 
Has no man flask, phial, jar, or nut- 
shell filled with it? ” 

“No one, master, since the tip- 
staves broke into the warehouse of 
tSimon Cimchi, and poured his pre- 
cious elixirs into the gutter.” 

“No one,” repeated the other, 
slowly ; “no one except — in the 
palace. The archbishop knows his 
fight hand from his left, and knows 
an elixir from a decoction. He has 
gone on the fool’s errand. Who is in 
his place ? ” 

The Florentine was not expert in 
•ecclesiastical matters, and called 
Jean Waldo himself, who had sat 


silently at his daughter s bedside, 
to put to him his master’s question : 
“ Who holds the primacy of Lyons 
in the archbishop’s absence in the 
East ? ” Giulio would have said that 
morning that, whether it were one 
priest or another, it mattered noth- 
ing to him. 

Jean Waldo replied respectfully, 
that Father Stephen of St. Amour 
was the dean of the chapter, and 
acted as the archbishop’s substitute. 
But he said that he was now absent 
in Burgundy on a visit with his fam- 
ily, and that the senior canon, one 
Father William, held his place. Jean 
Waldo knew that it was he who took 
the archbishop’s place in the high 
solemnity of Christmas. 

“ William of St. Bonnet, perhaps ; 
William of Roux, perhaps ; William 
of Chapinel, perhaps ; William of 
Cologne, perhaps. I remember them" 
all, and there is not one of them all 
but will know my sign-manual. 
Giulio, will you take a message 
to this locum tenentem, this arch- 
bishop pro tempore f” And as he 
spoke he wrote rapidly on his tab- 
lets. 

“ You would not dare, my master?” 

“The child’s stomach will not 
bear your watery wine. But all the 
child wants is as much stimulant 
within as you have been giving to 
her skin without. In the archbish- 
op’s medicine-chests are doubtless 
my precious elixirs, and Cimchi’s, I 
do not doubt, as well. If the arch- 
bishop himself were here, there would 
be no danger. He can handle an 
alembic as well as I can. 

“ As for daring, boy, to the child 
of God there is no danger. I came 
here ‘for the love of Christ.’ ‘For 
the love of Christ ’ I shall bid this 
servant of Christ send to this child 
this elixir. You will not refuse to 




70 


Tn His Name. 


go, he will not refuse to give ; if 
then the Lord pleases to give his 
blessing to our stumbling endeavor, 
all will be well. At the least, we 
will do our best, and make our en- 
deavor 

In His Name.” 

The Florentine said no other word, 
but rose, bowed, and took the parch- 
ments There was written there this 
missive : — 

For the Love of Christ. 

To my Brother William, Canon in 

the Cathedral of St. John: 

I write these words by the bedside of 
one of your flock, the child Eelicie 
Waldo. The child is dying because we 
need for her the Elixir of Cordova, of the 
second formula of Abulcasis. Send it to 
us, my brother, 

In His Name. 

Your brother in Christ, 

Jean of Lugio. 

And at the bottom of the letter 
was the rough design of the cross of 
Malta. 



Giulio the Florentine took the let- 
ter, crossed the court-yard, and, as 
he went, threw over him the black stu- 
dent’s gown, which he had left in the 
hall as he came up to the ministra- 
tion which had held him here all day. 
He was amazed, himself, at the con- 
fidence with which he undertook an 
office so strange. Had anybody told 
him he was to go on such an errand, 
he would have said that the errand 
was absurd, and that success in it 
was impossible. But now that he 
had it to do, the confidence of his 
master gave him confidence, — nay, 


even the absolute necessity of suc- 
cess made him sure that he should’ 
not fail. It was clear that the mas- 
ter thought that unless this Elixir of 
Cordova could be found, and found 
soon, their battle was lost ; that the 
child would not rally unless some 
stimulant could be used, more pre- 
cisely adjusted, and more highly con- 
centrated than any he had had at 
command. 

On the strangest duty, therefore,, 
as he knew, that ever he had been 
engaged in, the student left the 
weaver’s court-yard ; but still with the 
certainty of success. A few steps, 
uphill, and he was within sound of 
the evening chant, as in the newly- 
finished nave of the Cathedral church 
of St. John, the whole chapter 
and the great company of subor- 
dinate priests were engaged in the 
first of the series of services of the 
great festival. The nave itself, the 
porch and the street in front, were 
crowded with people, and the young 
man saw that entrance there was im- 
possible. He passed round the church 
to a little side portal, which gave 
entrance to a vestry which adjoined 
the chancel, and there he pressed for 
entrance. 

He did not find it difficult to enter 
the room itself. For in the general 
enthusiasm and general confusion,, 
all the minor clergy, and all the at- 
tendants and sacristans, of one tribe* 
and another, had passed up to door- 
ways and other openings, where they 
could see the pageant within, — and 
the Florentine soon found himself in 
the back of this throng, one of a 
crowd of half-official spectators. He 
chose his man instantly among these,, 
and chose, as it proved, not unwisely. 
He whispered to a tall priest, who 
stood' looking over the heads of the 
crowd in front, and spoke to him in 


In His Name. 


71 


that dialect of rustic Latin which was 
already passing into Italian in his 
own country. It proved that the 
priest was, as he suspected he was, 
his countryman, and understood him. 

“ I need,” whispered Giulio, “ to 
speak, at this moment, to his rever- 
ence the Dean.” 

“Impossible!” said the other, 
amazed at his presumption ; “ you 
see it is impossible. Yonder is the 
acting Dean in the Archbishop’s 
chair. A moment more, and he will 
advance to the Eagle.” 

“Apud homines hoc impossible 
est ; apud Deum autem omnia possibil- 
ia sunt,” replied the bold Florentine, 
still in a whisper. “ It is impossible 
with men ; but with God, all things 
are possible.” The good-natured 
priest turned, with surprise, to see 
what man he was who quoted Scrip- 
ture so happily and reverently. 

“ I tell you, my friend,” persisted 
Giulio, eagerly, “ I tell you I have 
that for the Canon William to see 
which is life and death, — ^perhaps for 
him, for aught I know, — certainly for 
others. He will not thank the man 
who keeps me away from him ! ” 

“ Who keeps thee away ! ” said the 
other, almost with scorn. “ Enter if 
you can. You see it is impossible, 
at least for you and me. Hush, now, 
hush, you see he is kneeling at the 
Eagle.” 

The Eagle was the gilded Eagle, 
on whose outstretched wings lay the 
beautiful missal book, from which the 
Senior Canon, in place of the Dean 
and the Archbishop, was about to 
read his part in the service. With a 
clear and earnest voice he began. 

“ For the love of Christ, my friend,” 
said Giulio, speaking almost aloud to 
his companion, “ let us press in to- 
gether. We two can reach his rev- 
erence with this missive. What is 


there that two of us cannot do if we 
attempt it 

In His Name?” 

The eagerness with which he spoke, 
in truth, and the invocation which he 
used, swept the other away. Scarce- 
ly knowing what he did, scarcely 
knowing that he exercised authority 
upon those that stood around, the 
father touched one and another of 
them, with command, as if he also 
had a part in the appointed service, — 
as, indeed, he had, if ever any man 
had special part in sacred ritual. So 
decided was his manner, that those 
in front of him instinctively obeyed. 
To his own surprise, and to Giulio’s 
indeed, they were standing, in a mo- 
ment more, in the front rank of the 
crowd of clergy who were looking in 
reverently upon the solemnity. The 
Florentine, at the instant, was in- 
spired. One of those great impulses 
seized him, which do not often come 
to a man in a lifetime, — when he is 
swept away by a Life and Power 
larger than his own, and acts without 
fear or hesitation, though on a stage 
which he has never trodden before, 
and in a scene to which he has never 
looked forward. Taking his unknown 
guide by the hand, Giulio boldly 
walked across the brilliant chancel in 
face of the immense assembly, pass- 
ing confidently among the kneeling 
priests, who were in their several 
places, till he came to the Eagle, and 
to the side of the Arch-Canon Wil- 
liam as he knelt there. The priest 
instinctively fell on his knees at one 
side, while the student knelt on the 
other. To the clergy, each iu his 
appointed place, this movement was 
of course inexplicable, and it was a 
surprise. To the great body of the 
assembly, however, it was equally in- 
explicable ; but it was no surprise. 


72 


In His Name. 


To them it was only a part of the 
great pageant, of which all the so- 
lemnity impressed and awed them, 
while they did not pretend to know 
the purpose of its several details. 

The acting Archbishop himself was 
not aware of the neighborhood of 
these two new-comers. Completely 
carried away by the spirit of the ser- 
vice in which he was engaged, scarce- 
ly conscious of the presence of any 
of those around him, simply eager to 
carry to the multitude before him the 
true sense of the Scripture he was 
reading, and in his heart praying all 
*he time for Divine Help that he 
might so render those sacred words 
that, even in this ancient Latin, these 
people might, in a measure, under- 
stand their import, the good father 
passed from point to point of the les- 
son, and only paused for the inter- 
ludes which had been arranged to be 
played on the great organ, whose 
notes in this new-built Cathedral were 
still a novelty. The priest on one 
side, and the Florentine on the other, 
offered no interruption to his sacred 
service. 

But, in a moment, the prelate had 
finished his reading, and the “ organ- 
ists of the Hallelujah/’ four priests 
who sang, in parts, a portion of the 
mass arranged for them, took up 
their service. As the prelate, awed 
by the solemnity of his own words, 
lifted his head from the bent attitude 
in which he had been reading, the 
Florentine touched him lightly on 
the shoulder, and said to him in 
Latin : — 

“It is ‘For the Love of Christ’ 
that I am here and speak to you. A 
dying girl needs your help, and I am 
bidden to come to call you 

In His Name.” 

There was r.ot a priest of the lesser 


degree in the great circle around 
but was chafing with indignation 
and amazement as he witnessed the 
utterly unauthorized intrusion which 
had been made in the very crisis of 
the great solemnity. But to William, 
who was the central officer in it all, | 
whose whole heart was glowing with | 
one eager wish that this people might 
understand how a child born in a 
manger might yet be the Prince of 
Peace, how the Lord of lords and 
King of kings might yet minister in 
the humblest offices, it seemed in this 
interruption as if the Holy Spirit had 
sent the immediate present answer to 
his yearning prayer ; and when, in the 
language of Holy Writ itself, with the 
great invocation which had worked 
all miracles from the beginning, man 
spoke to him, he answered imme- 
diately, — 

“ Ecce adsum Domine”; and, to 
the Florentine, he added, “ quo ducas 
sequar,” — “Lord, I am here ; where 
thou leadest, I will follow.” At the 
moment, seeing the priest Alexander 
at his other side, he counted his pres- 
ence also as a part of the vision or 
miracle which surrounded him ; he 
touched him, in turn, and pointed to 
him the place of the reading on the 
open missal-book on the Eagle ; in- 
timated to him that he was to go on 
with the service when the organists 
of the Hallelujah were done, and so 
followed the Florentine out from the 
brilliant chancel, threading his way 
among the kneeling ranks of the 
amazed clergy, and came with him 
into the narrow crypts of the darker 
vestry. A crowd of officers of the 
church, from sacristans up to canons, 
of those waiting at the doors, turned 
and pressed around them ; but their 
chief waved them back to the chan- 
cel. “ Leave me alone with the mes- 
senger,” he said, “ and let the service 


In His Name. 


73 


-of Noel not be abated, not in one 
syllable of the office.” 

Then he turned to the Florentine, 
and almost whispered to him, “ Ad- 
sum et sequar,” — “I am here, and I 
will follow.” 

“ Your grace need not follow,” said 
the young man, who was only sur- 
prised that he was not surprised at 
all that was passing. The truth is, 
that any actor in one of those waves 
of inspiration, in which true men are 
buoyed up together by the Holy 
Spirit, only feels that the whole is 
-entirely what must be and should be ; 
and his only wonder is that such 
strength and simplicity are not the 
law of all life. “ Your grace need 
not follow. If your grace will read 
this message, that is all.” 

Father William glanced at the scrap 
of vellum which the young man gave 
him, looked from the top to the bot- 
tom, saw the invocation “ For the 
Love of Christ,” and the appeal “ In 
His Name ” ; saw the signature of the 
old companion of his novitiate, John 
of Lugio, and saw the Cross of 
Malta, the significance of which among 
the initiates he well knew. The awe, 
which had controlled him from the 
beginning of the appeal made to him, 
was not diminished as his eye caught 
these words. He still felt that he 
was under Sacred Guidance, and read 
the letter once and again. 

“ O, my brother ! ” he said, then, 
with a sad sigh, “ our brother asks 
what I am powerless to give. If our 
brother Stephen of St. Amour were 
here, he understands the Archbishop’s 
alembics and elixirs. Even William 
of Cologne has some novice’s notion 
of them. But I — I am but a child — 
nor do I even dare open the cloister 
room where these things are, lest I 
wake spirits that I cannot lay.” 

“ If your worship will pardon me, 


I have studied of these elixirs with 
the very men with whom the Arch- 
bishop has studied.” In that sacred 
presence, the Florentine would not 
name paynim oounds like Abulcasis 
and Averroes. “If your grace will 
only lead to the cloister, I will de- 
cide. 1 Ecce adsum, quo ducas se- 
quar,’ ” citing his own words of the 
moment before. 

“ As the Lord will. 4 For the Love 
of Christ,’ I do what you bid me. 
And service cannot be mistaken, 
which is rendered 4 In His Name.’ ” 

So saying, the prelate took from 
the sconce one of the large conse- 
crated candles which furnished the 
light to the dim vestry, and bade the 
student take the other. They left the 
room in darkness, and, with these 
strange flaring torches, they crossed 
the court-yard to the amazement of 
the grooms in attendance, and entered 
by the Archbishop’s private door to 
the corridor of his apartments, to the 
equal astonishment of the porter on 
duty there. The palace of the Arch- 
bishop was one of the grandest and 
most beautiful buildings then in 
France. As the young man stood in 
the magnificent hall of entrance, he 
wondered at the richness and beauty 
of its sculptures. After a moment’s 
pause the Canon joined him again, 
coming out from his chamber with a 
heavy bunch of keys, and led the way 
to the corridor to the very end. He 
quickly turned the key in the lock, 
and said to Giulio, with a sweet 
smile, — 

“ To this moment, I have believed 
that I might be in a dream — nescie- 
bam rem veram esse quod fiebat per 
angclum, sed putabam me visum vi- 
dere.” * 

* “Nor deemed that it wa^ true wliich 
was spoken by the angel, but thought I 
saw a vision.” 


74 


In His Name, 


“We are both guided by angels 
and archangels whom we cannot see, 
my lord.” This was the young man's 
reverent reply. 

The heavy door of the Archbishop’s 
private laboratory swung open. The 
Canon himself, who had unlocked it, 
had never entered the chamber before. 
And the man of science was himself 
surprised, when he saw how extensive 
was the apparatus of mystery and of 
alchemy which was collected there. 
He recognized one and another imple- 
ment of infant chemistry, which he 
had himself used in his master’s 
workshop, and which the Archbishop 
had rescued from destruction when 
his master fled. He saw also in an 
instant that, as he had supposed, the 
stores of the Jew Cimchi had found 
their way to this collection. The 
place itself, with its collection of un- 
known machines, had a little of the 
look of that curiosity-shop, repre- 
sented by Albert Durer, some centuries 
later, in which his weird Melancolia 
sits brooding. In the Archbishop’s 
den, however, neither prelate nor 
physician had time to lose. The 
young man cast his eye around, and, 
seeing an exquisite cabinet of Vene- 
tian inlaid work on one side, asked 
his companion if there were no Vene- 
tian keys upon the chain which he 
had brought with him. A few exper- 
iments threw open the little case, and 
a series of choice phials — some of 
silver, some of glass — stood before 
them both, which the younger of the 
two visitors recognized at once as 
being of the most careful Saracen 
workmanship of the time. 

He brought his tall candle to the 
little shelves, and read the names 
marked upon the several elixirs, tinc- 
tures, spirits, and “ humors.” To his 
eye, some of the flasks before him 
were worth a king’s ransom. But at 


this moment they had not kings t« 
ransom, but Felicie to save. And, 
in an instant, he showed to the prel- 
ate what they wanted. Marked first ; 
in Arabic, and beneath in Latin, was 1 
the “ Elixir of Cordova, of the second 
formula of Abulcasis.” 

“ Your reverence sees that here is 
what we need. Am I to take the 
flask to the child ? ” 

The prelate bent, and read the sec- jj 
ond inscription. “ It is in his grace’s 
own handwriting,” he said. “ How J 
strange that these Saracens whom we 
are riding down in the field are those 
who send to us the elixirs of life in 
our homes. Let it be as the Lord 
wills. If my Lord did not deem the 
elixir precious, he would not have ; 
saved it. But it is wri tten that the i 
paynim also shall serve. ‘ Ask of 
me, and I will give thee the heathen 
for thine inheritance.’ Take what is 
needed, my son, ‘ For the Love of 
Christ,’ and may the Holy Mother 
give the blessing which is promised 
to those who serve 

‘In His Name.’” 

Unconsciously the father had twice 
used the first and last passwords of 
the initiated Poor Men of Lyons. 
The proficient started as he did be- 
fore, when he heard the two phrases 
together, and felt, indeed, that the 
true minister before him had used 
them wisely and well. The permis- 
sion once given him, he took the pre- 
cious flask from its companions. The 
prelate locked the cabinet, locked the 
door of the cell, and then offered to 
go with the other to the child’s bed- 
side. “ I will administer extreme 
unction, if you think her case so des- 
perate.” 

“ My father, the child is uncon- 
scious. But, at the least, her breath 
will not pass away for hours. You 


In His Name. 


75 


can be ill spared from yonder service. 
If, when it is over, she needs your 
care, you shall find me waiting at the 
door of the chapel.” 

And so they parted : the Floren- 
tine with the priest’s blessing, the 
prelate with the other’s thanks. W ith 
his great candle flaring, he crossed 
the street in the darkness, passed 
rapidly up to the great cathedral 
door, and bade the throng open, that 
he might enter. At the sight of the 
great chief of the whole solemnity in 
his full robes of ceremony, the crowd 
in street and porch rolled back rever- 
ently, and the holy man, still wonder- 
ing at all which had passed, walked 
up the nave, where all made room for 
him, bearing his flambeau still, and 
as if he were in a dream. To the 
multitude, this seemed a part of the 
ceremonial. To the canons and the 
other clergy, it was all amazing. He 
came to the altar as his humble sub- 
stitute was chanting the words, — 

“ The glory of the Lord shall be 
revealed, and all flesh shall see the 
salvation of our God.” 


And never had those words seemed 
to Father William to mean so much 
as they meant now. He knelt at 
Father Alexander’s side. He gave- 
to him the candle which he bore, still 
burning, and assumed again his part 
in the Sacred office. 

And so the service of triumph went 
on, the Communion and the Post~ 
Communion. And, at the close, Fa- 
ther William offered the prayer : — 

“ Grant us, O Lord, we pray, that- 
we may live in the new life of thine* 
only begotten son, in whose heavenly 
mystery we eat and drink this night.- 
Through that same Lord, we offer our 
petitions.” 

And it seemed to Father William- 
that never had he known, as now r 
what that New Life was. And as,- 
upon his knees, he thought how a 
Gospel of Love was lifting Felicie* 
from the dead that night, and who 
should say how many more of the 
sick and suffering, the priest felt as 
he had never felt before, on the Vigil 
of the Nativity, that “the Lord had- 
visited his people.” 


CHAPTER X. 

CHRISTMAS DAWNS. 


The blackamoor was waiting at the 
outer doorway for the Florentine’s 
return. The, master, he said, was in 
Madame Waldo’s kitchen, and thither 
the young man carried to him the 
precious Elixir. 

“ Thank God that you are here ! ” 
said his master who, with his outer 
garments off, was at work as a cook 
might be, over the coals. “ And 
thank God again, that you have this 
that you are sent for.” He held the 
dark-red elixir to the light, and 
smiled graciously and sweetly again, 


as he saw its perfect clearness and 
the richness of its color. “Dear child*, 
these sour watery wines would not 
lie upon her stomach. You were* 
right in using them so sparingly. I 
left her just now, after another of 
these spasms you described to me. 
I do not know but I myself brought 
it on. Yet I could not have seen 
her die before my eyes, in lipothymy,. 
for want of stimulant and reaction. 
Now we can quicken the beating of 
her heart, without flooding her 
stomach with sour grape juice. 


76 


In His Name. 


“ My faith began to fail me. I 
knew she was lost if they had seized 
you,” he continued, as they mounted 
■the stair. “ I was at work with the 
dame’s pipkins and pans trying to 
make a little spirit pass over upon 
the bit of earthenware you saw T me 
holding. But it was a poor alembic 
I had made, compared to that in 
•which this spirit was distilled.” 

And so they entered the child’s 
room once more. 

The Florentine was amazed, him- 
self, to see how much she seemed to 
have withered away since he was 
•gone. He had been in that chamber 
twenty-seven hours continuously, be- 
fore he left it. From minute to min- 
ute he had watched her face, and so 
gradual had been the decline which 
that time had wrought in it, that, from 
the very watchfulness of his care, he 
did not enough appreciate it. But 
the hour of his absence had changed 
her terribly. And because he had 
been absent, he now noted every de- 
tail of the change. 

Ready for his use, John of Lugio 
had three or four silver spoons lying 
heated on the hearth, close to the 
^embers. With a gloved hand he took 
one of these, dropped into it what 
he thought enough of his precious 
<Christ-sent elixir, partially cooled it, 
for an instant, on the surface of a 
full cup of water, and then poured the 
spirit with a firm hand between the 
olose lips of the child, who never 
seemed to struggle when he dealt 
with her. Jeau Waldo, from the 
other side of the bed, and Madame 
Gabrielle, from the foot of it, sadly 
watched the whole. 

The adept placed his hand upon 
the heart of his patient, counting the 
pulsations with his eyes closed, and 
then, crossing the room, set Giulio’s 
pendulum again in motion. There 


stole over the girl’s face an expres- 
sion which all of them construed as 
that of relief from pain. No one of 
all those watching her said a single 
word, as a space of time which might 
have been five minutes went by. But 
in that time the dear child twice 
turned her head on the pillow, as if 
she would say, “ I can sleep now,” 
and her whole expression certainly 
came to indicate the absence of pain. 
The Florentine once and again re- 
newed the motion of the pendulum ; 
and his master, again by the bed- 
side, as often noted the pulsation of 
the sufferer’s heart, and counted the 
heaving of her lungs. 

He said nothing. None of them 
now said anything. But at the end, 
perhaps of ten minutes, not dissatis- 
fied, as it would seem, with the exper- 
iment, he heated again a few drops of 
the elixir, and again poured them 
into her mouth, which opened now 
without any of the spasmodic strug- 
gle which had, sometimes, checked 
their efforts for her. The master put 
his hand upon her forehead, smiled 
with that tender smile which they 
had now all come to look for and 
hope for, and then whispered to her 
mother, “Now for your hot cloths 
at her stomach and hot water for her 
feet again. If she sleeps she shall 
do well. ‘ Si dormit salva erit,’ 
he' said to Giulio again ; “ there is 
better authority for that than for 
any of Pope Sylvester’s maxims.” 

And then, rather in following his 
example than in obedience to any 
formal directions, they all seated 
themselves, — the two physicians by 
the fire, the father and mother by the 
sides of the bed, the one attendant 
in the corner, and no one spoke a 
word. The last thing had been done 
that their skill or energy could com- 
mand. Every one of the group had 


In His Name . 


77 


done, in his best way, what he could 
in bringing it about, and every one of 
them knew that now life or death was, 
in no sense, in their hands. In his 
own fashion, probably, each of them 
prayed : even the poor silent black- 
amoor, to such God as he knew ; the 
mother, to the virgin and St. Felicie 
and St. Gabrielle ; the father, with a 
wretched consciousness that he had 
hitherto conceived that his wife and 
daughter could do all the praying 
needful in that house, or that he 
could pay for what more might be 
needed ; the Florentine as to the Spirit 
of Life, that that living spirit would 
so purify and quicken the child’s 
spirit, that flesh and blood, drug and 
poison, might obey its requisition and 
command ; and the priest, because the 
wisest of them all, with the very sim- 
plest prayer of all, “ Fatner of all of 
us, come to us all.” 

There was no method of noting the 
passage of time, unless they had 
counted the beatings of their own 
hearts, now that the pendulum of the 
Florentine had been left unmoved. 
But, after a longer space than anj% in 
which either the girl’s stillness or their 
own anxiety had permitted them to sit 
silent before, the master crossed to 
the bed again, felt of her head and of 
her heart again, and then, with his 
pleased smile, nodded to his assistant, 
and, in a whisper, bade him bring a 
larger draught than they had given of 
the cordial. He only nodded and 
smiled, as he caught the anxious and 
eager, questioning look of Madame 
Gabrielle. But those signals were 
enough, — and she, poor soul, was on 
her knees at the bedside, in the most 
voluble prayer, though wholly silent. 

The master indulged her for a few 
moments in these grateful devotions, 
then walked round and touched her 
on the shoulder, and made her su- 


premely happy by summoning her to 
duty. It was simply that she should' 
place a fresh pillow on the bed, and 
then, with her stoutest maid, should 
lift the child from the one side of it 
to the other, that she might have the 
best chance for the sleep which seemed 
now to be nature’s best restorative. 
These cares ended, he banished Mad- 
ame Gabrielle absolutely from the 
room, and her husband as well. He 
bade the- maid prepare a bed for the 
Florentine, as if he were her master* 
and sent them both away. He told 
the blackamoor to renew the heap of 
wood by the fire, and then to wait- 
in the corridor till he was called. 
He extinguished all the candles whiclj 
they had been using in their sev- 
eral cares, so that he could remove 
from the girl’s bedside the screens- 
which had kept the light from her 
eyes. And then, as the only watch- 
man by the flickering fire of her earthly 
being, he threw himself into one of the 
deep arm-chairs which Madame Ga- 
brielle had provided, and, in the abso- 
lute stillness of the night, waited the 
issue of their efforts and their prayers. 

As he looked into the waning em- 
bers of the fire, and saw, once and 
again, a spark running in its wayward 
course, up and down and everywhere 
on the back of the chimney, telling 
what the children called prophetic- 
tales to the looker-on, — as he looked 
back, were it only on the events of 
that day, since he was interrupted by 
the charcoal-dealer, as he compared 
the various readings in St. Jerome’s 
Evangelistaries, but just before noon, 
it was as if in to-day’s experience 
his whole life took order before him. 
The master was not much in the habit 
of raking over the embers of his past 
life, but it was almost impossible not 
to look into them in the midst of the 
reminiscences of such a day as this. 


78 


In His Name. 


Of the two Benedictines whom he 
bad met so unexpectedly by the pos- 
tern gate of the abbey at Cornillon, 
.one was the companion even of his 
-childish life, the son of his father’s 
nearest neighbor. The master’s mem- 
ory did not go back to a time before 
that, when, with a little bo } 7 of just 
his own strength and size, he dug in 
the sand-heaps by the road-side, or 
made ineffectual traps for the spar- 
rows. With that boy he had grown, — 
had worked in the simple farm-life of 
the fields around Lugio, — had, when 
they were older, learned his letters, 
.and learned to write at last. The par- 
ish priest had taken a fancy to both 
these boys, who discouraged the noisy 
and mischievous urchins of the town, 
as they all sat together in the church, 
and wondered when the mass would 
be over. As the little fellows grew 
bigger, the worthy man selected these 
two to be robed in little robes, and to 
carry, in the service, bell and book 
and incense. He loved nothing better 
than to walk with them and talk with 
them, now of saints and their battles 
and victories, now of birds and snakes 
and frogs, or of flowers and fruits, as 
they found them in the fields and 
woods and marshes. And, by this 
selection of his, and by their own 
natural bent, it had happened that, 
when the other boys around them be- 
came masons, or vine} 7 ard dressers, 
or sometimes carriers and merchants’ 
men ; when some of them went into 
the service of one or another of the 
neighboring gentry, and so showed 
themselves, on the first holidays, in 
new jerkins or hauberks, to the won- 
der of the boys less smartly dressed, 
Jean and Francis had too much to 
do in the service of the church, or in 
studying with the priest, or in one or 
another message of his, sometimes 
taking them as far as the Cathedral, 


and into high intimacy rvith arch* 
deacons and canons ; had too much 
of this dignified and grateful service 
for them to think or care for the more 
carnal lines of life in which their com- 
panions were engaging. Frai^ois, 
his companion, under the ecclesias- 
tical name of Stephen, was the older 
of the Benedictines he had met that 
da} 7 . It was in one of those early 
journeys, when he was yet hardly more 
than a boy, that he had gone on some 
errand to the great Monastery of 
Clairvaux, a place not unfamiliar to 
him, and had been actually there, 
awaiting the answer to a message, 
when the great Bernard died, — the 
man to whom all Europe deferred 
more, as it owed more, than to any 
other. And as the master looked 
back, he knew that it was the lesson 
of that hour, sad and solemn-** which 
had determined him, then and there 
to give up his life to the service and 
help of other men. Then came on 
years of life, — impatient enough at 
the time, very likely, but, as he looked 
back upon them, sunny indeed, and 
crowded with incident and enjoyment. 
The sailing down the river with his 
lively companions, of which the Bar- 
oness of Montferrand had reminded 
him, was a fair enough illustration 
of that life. And there was a wrench 
at his heart now, renewing many and 
many a march of many a night of 
struggle at that time, as he asked 
himself now, for the thousandth 
time, 

“ If he had then and there given 
up his determination to make him- 
self a priest, if he had then and 
there asked his mother’s goddaugh- 
ter, Anne of Thoissey, — so brave 
and true and loyal as she was, and 
so beautiful withal, — to share life 
with him ; and If — 

“ Ip she had said, what it some- 


In His Name . 


79 


times seemed that she might say; 
and they two together had given 
themselves to the service of God and 
ministry to man, might it have been 
that they could have rendered wider 
service, and made their own lives 
and other lives more godly, than 
had happened as it was ? ” He had 
torn himself from her, and with so 
many of these men, with whom to- 
■day was mixing him again, had en- 
tered on his priestly training. And 
she, — at this moment she was abbess 
in the Convent of Montmerle. Was 
she happier and better — and was he ? 

Then there was all his earlier 
training of manhood, and the taking 
of his vows. And the memories of 
all those young men who then sur- 
rounded him : they were now canons 
and deacons and bishops and arch- 
bishops ; they were with Philip and 
Richard in the East ; they were the 
heads of houses here in the West ; 
yes, — and so many of them were in 
heaven! How strangely had every 
one of them falsified every prediction 
which, in those days of their novi- 
tiate, they would have been sure to 
make regarding each other ! 

And so he came down to the period 
of a man’s activity, to what one of 
our poets calls “ the joy of eventful 
living.” Those happy days here in 
Lyons, when he never looked back, 
and scarcely ever looked forward ; 
when he found, at his right hand and 
at his left hand, noble men and no- 
ble women from every grade in life, 
only eager to serve God as God 
should show them how. The prac- 
tical enthusiasm of Peter of Waldo ! 
The discovery of new truth and high- 
er Life which each day made, as they 
studied gospel and epistle ! The 
strength they all gained in sympathy : 
sometimes from the droll beggars 
whc came to them in travel ; some- 


times from women and children who 
seemed inspired in the very propor- 
tion of their ignorance of books; 
waifs and strays these, who came to 
light, as the “ Poor Men of Lyons ” 
assembled the troops from highways 
and byways, from hedges and ditches, 
at their houses of bread and houses 
of God ! In the midst of this, as if 
it were almost another man whose 
life he was recalling, came the mem- 
ories of all those studies in physi- 
cal science, the fruits of which he 
was this night using ; his journeys 
to Cordova and Seville ; his inter- 
views with the Cimchis and Abul- 
casis ; the enthusiasm which even 
Guichard, now Archbishop, showed, as 
in the cell of Abulcasis he and Jean 
of Lugio together saw for the first 
time what seemed almost the miracle 
of distillation, and their first success 
in repeating that experiment with 
the humble apparatus which they two 
had made for themselves ! And to 
think of what had passed since then ! 
Guichard, an archbishop, Lord of the 
fief of Lyons, and John of Lugio, an 
exile, with a sword hanging over his 
head ! 

And so his memories ran down 
through all the days of trial. First, 
there was the happy work over Scrip- 
ture with Peter Waldo, with Bernard 
of Ydros, and with Stephen of Empsa. 
Then, the journey to Rome with Peter 
Waldo, and the welcome by Pope Al- 
exander, more than cordial — the wel- 
come which gave such wings and such 
courage to their return. Then, John 
of Balmeis’s scorn, as he received 
the Pope’s letter, his pretended in- 
quiry, and his bitter and cruel excom- 
munication. Then, the wretched 
years of suspense, more wretched 
than those of certainty in exile ; 
Peter’s second visit to Rome ; the 
council called by Lucius, and its 


80 


In His Name. 


jealousies ; the clergy against the 
laymen, and the laymen scorned and 
rejected. “ Ah me/’ said John of 
Lugio, aloud, “ it is always as it was 
in the beginning. The carpenter’s 
shop could gain no welcome in the 
temple courts, and it cannot to-day. 
He was despised and rejected of 
men.” 

Had he disturbed his patient by 
speaking ? 

She turned on her pillow, and said, 
“ Mamma ! Mamma ! ” 

John of Lugio gently crossed the 
room, removing the candle from its 
shelter as he did so, that she might 
see him distinctly, and then he said, 
as if he had known her all her life, 
and was her dear friend, “ Your 
mamma is asleep now, dear child, 
and she has left me to take care of 
you. She left this bunch of grapes 
for you to wet your lips with.” 

“ Bunch of grapes — wet my lips,” 
said the girl, almost laughing at the 
oddity which supposed that she, of 
all people, needed nursing in the mid- 
dle of the night ; and then she tried 
to rise upon her elbow, and then found 
she had not just the balance that she 
needed, and dropped back upon her 
pillow. “Where am I? what is it?” 
she asked, more doubtfully. 

“You have been very ill, my dear 
child, but you are better now; wet 
your lips with the grapes ; that will 
please mamma ; or let me give you 
a little of the broth which she left 
for you.” 

“ Broth which she left for me ? Did 
not I drink some — herb drink which 
she made for me ? or — or — is that — 
all that — a horrid dream? O, sir, 
I have had such dreams.” And she 
sank quite exhausted on the pillow. 

“Dear Felicie, you shall forget 
them all. Take mamma’s broth, and 
take with it a little of this cordial, 


and try to sleep again.” There wa& 
little need for persuasion. The child 
lay almost impassive as he fed her ; 
thanked him then with the same pret- 
tiness and sweetness with which she- 
spoke to beggar or worshipper on the- 
hill or in the church of St. Thomas, 
and, in a moment, was asleep again. 
But sleep now was so beautiful and 
so regular, her pale face had lost so* 
entirely the lines of agony and strug- 
gle, that the priest, as he looked on, 
thanked God in his heart of hearts, 
for the greatest of blessings, the re- 
turn of health, and for the sight- 
most beautiful of all His gifts, — the- 
sight of a sleeping child. 

As he returned to his watch by the- 
fire, the silence of night was broken 
by the chimes of the cathedral. In* 
an instant more he heard the rival 
chimes of the Abbey of lie Barbe, 
and then the chimes of Ainay, and 
then the ringing of bells that could 
not be named, as Sts. Machabees and 
St. Nizier and St. Paul, and the tower 
of the Augustins, and every church 
and abbey and convent in all the- 
country around broke out with joy 
to announce that the Lord of Life wa& 
born into the world. 

“Unto us a child is born,” said 
John of Lugio, reverently. 

Hour after hour his quiet watch) 
went by. Wise as he was, he did not 
dream that only on the other side of 
the doorway, crouching on a njat~ 
tress, through all these hours, was. 
Madame Gabrielle, waiting for sound 
or signal which might give her per 
mission to return to her post at her 
child’s side. No! The house was so- 
still, that the wise man thought that 
all had obeyed his orders, and that 
all were sleeping. From hour to- 
hour he took such occasion as the 
child’s occasional restlessness gave 
him, to feed her with her mother’s* 


In His Name . 


81 


broth, and to give the precious stim- 
ulant of the Archbishop’s elixir. And 
she, dear girl, fairly smiled in her 
sleep, once and again, as happier 
dreams came over her, and as Nature 
asserted herself now, that the poison 
was so nearly gone from her. At 
last, as the priest supposed, this night 
had nearly sped. He drew the cur- 
tain, and he was right ; there was a 
gray light spread over the east, in the 
midst of which the morning-star shone 
with beauty preternatural, with a 
light so bright that he could see it 
reflected in the river below. The 
light was so gentle that he thought it 


would not disturb the child. He 
crossed to the door to bid the black 
call Madame Gabrielle. And lo, she 
was already there ! He led her to 
the bedside, that he might show to 
her the glow of new life upon Feli- 
cie’s face. And just as they ap- 
proached, the child opened her e} r es 
again, and looked wistfully around, 
and even sat up and began to speak. 
“ Mamma, mamma.” 

And he delivered her to her moth- 
er. 

With that gift of Life newborn, 
the Christmas Day of that home be- 
gan. 


CHAPTER XI. 

TWELFTH NIGHT. 


When Twelfth Night came, the great 
hall of Jean Waldo’s workshop had 
been cleared from all its looms. 

In their places were three long ta- 
bles, which stretched from end to end 
of the long room, and across the top 
a fourth table, which united these to- 
gether. 

All through the day the great kitch- 
en was crowded by the eager servants 
of the household, and all the neigh- 
bors’ kitchens were put into requisi- 
tion as well, to furnish forth the most 
noble feast which had been seen in 
Lyons for many, many years. Men 
even whispered that the great feast, 
when the Archbishop entertained 
King Richard and King Philip, was 
not so grand. 

That morning Felicie, and her moth- 
er and father, and her cousin Gabrielle 
L’Estrange, and many others of the 
family, — “too many for to name,” — 
nad all gone together in a little pil- 
grimage of thanksgiving to the cathe- 
dral. Felicie had begged that they 


would take her to her own little eyrie 
church of St. Thomas, on the top of 
the hill ; but no, that was quite too 
far, even though Felicie rode in the 
chariot which appeared in public so 
seldom. At the cathedral, also, they 
could be present while the good Fa- 
ther William said mass, and their 
solemnity would hardly be complete 
without him. 

After this offering, they had all re- 
turned together to the house, and 
there the grand salon was opened, the 
room which seemed to Felicie almost 
mysterious, so seldom did it see the 
light of day. And when it did, she 
found that it was like most other 
mysteries, for there was very little in 
it. But to-day, dear old Eudes, who 
had been a sort of major-domo, or 
servant-master, in Madame Waldo’s 
household, even before Felicie was 
born, had done his best to make it 
seem cheerful. At each end a lordly 
fire, made of great oak logs, blazed 
cheerfully. Eudes had sent the lads 


82 


In His Name . 


every where to Tiring laurel and other 
evergreens to hang above the chim- 
ney-pieces and between the windows 
and around the sconces ; and after 
they had come home from mass, when 
one and another of the guests began 
to appear, whom J ean W aldo had sum- 
moned from far and near, — as they 
gathered, at first a little shyly, 
around one fireplace or another, but 
soon unbending before the genuine 
hospitality of all who were at home, 
and as people will unbend, in France 
of all nations, when old and young 
meet in the same company, — the 
great hall was then cheerful indeed. 
The talk was loud and the mer- 
riment contagious. Dear little Fe- 
licie sat in a great arm-chair, with 
her feet lifted, upon a footstool, but 
she did not look as if this care were 
in the least needful. Only her ihother 
and her father seemed to feel that un- 
less they were taking care of her, in 
some visible fashion, at every mo- 
ment, all might escape again, and be 
gone. But Felicie had her aids, to 
fetch and carry for her, and to run 
hither and thither with her messages. 
She said she meant to play at being 
queen upon her throne ; and, indeed, 
she was so, pretty creature, in the 
midst of all that assembly. Gabrielle 
L’Estrange took great airs as being a 
lady in waiting, and came and whis- 
pered, and ran hither and thither, as 
if her sovereign’s commands were 
most difficult of execution. And for 
the first hour, tha't shy, pretty Fan- 
chon, the daughter of Mark of Seys- 
sel, stood almost constantly at the 
side of Felicie’s chair. She was 
dressed in a holiday costume, such as 
the peasants of the hills were fond 
of wearing, so simple and pretty and 
quaint that she attracted everybody’s 
notice in the midst of the Lyonnaise 
girls, in their more uniform costume. 


Fanchon felt at ease with Felicie fiom 
the very first kiss. It took her longer 
to adjust herself to Gabrielle’s busy, 
active, diplomatic managing of the 
party. But Fanchon, also, melted at 
last to the simple courtesies and hos- 
pitalities of the place. And, as the 
afternoon began to come in, and the 
winter sun crept in a little at the west- 
ern windows, Felicie had the joy to 
see all her guests — for her father 
said that this was her party, and only 
hers — obeying the sound of pipe 
and tabor and harp, and dancing mer- 
rily, from one end of the hall to the 
other. Always there was a little 
court clustered around her throne. 
But always she would order them 
away, in such couples as it pleased 
her Majesty to select, and send them 
out again “ to try the adventure ” of 
the dance, she said. “ To try ” this 
or that “ adventure” was the stand- 
ard phrase of the romances of the 
troubadours, with which Felicie and 
her young friends, and, indeed, all the 
company, were wholly familiar. 

And, before the early winter sun 
went down, others joined in the fes- 
tival, so that when Eudes came bus- 
tling in, to tell Madame Waldo that 
all was ready at the tables, Father 
John of Lugio was one of her guests 
again. And she brought him to her 
daughter, and, in that sweet, cour- 
teous wa}' of his, he told her Majesty 
that he was bidden to take her to the 
supper-room, and asked her to lead 
with him the procession. And then, 
even to Felicie’s amazement, and al- 
most to her terror, Father William 
appeared also, whom she had not seen 
before, and Father William followed 
close on Father John, giving his hand 
to Felicie’s mother. And then the 
order required that Giulio the Flor- 
entine should lead in Madame L’Es- 
trange, who wondered indeed herself 


In His Name . 


sa 


at finding herself so provided for, and 
then the other guests followed, in 
many a combination quite as strange. 
In a few minutes all were ordered : 
Felicie at her mother’s side, and on 
their right and left the two priests ; 
the Florentine and Madame L’Es- 
trange ; the Baron of Montferrand 
and the Lady Alix. Even the two 
monks, Stephen and Hugh, had ob- 
tained some sort of dispensation from 
their convent, and were here ; Gual- 
tier of the Mill was here ; Mark of 
Seyssel and his wife and all his chil- 
dren, down to Hubert, were here ; poor 
Prinhac was here, with his arm in a 
sling ; the officer of the night, who 
threw up the portcullis so promptly, 
was here, and the sentinel who held 
the gate. Here was the farmer of the 
hill-side. Here was every groom that 
had cared for the horses who that day 
sped so well ; here was the boy who 
rode Cceur-Blanc into the stable, when 
Father Jean was afraid to be seen; 
here was Father Alexander, who 
crossed the blazing chancel so fear- 
lessly with the Florentine. Here was 
every messenger who had been sent 
on that sad night for Felicie’s father 
and for the doctor ; every neighbor 
who had brought in oil, or snow, or 
herbs, for her relief ; every maid who 
had warmed a plate for her. Here 
were the trouvere and Antoine. Seven 
score guests were assembled, of every 
degree, — gentlemen and grooms, la- 
dies and scullion-maids. The invita- 
tions had been given with diligent 
care to every one who had done any- 
thing, in that night of trial, which 
had helped our darling Felicie, and to 
every one who had tried to do so. 

Father William asked God’s bless- 
ing on the feast; and, with great 
merriment and joy, it went forward. 
The young men and the girls had 
every sort of joke about the Twelfth- 


Night presents, which they had se- 
cretly brought for each other ; and, at 
the last, there was great ceremony 
and rivalry as to who should have the 
sacred bean, which was baked in the 
Twelfth cake, which Felicie pretended 
to cut, and which was, in truth, cut 
by the strong right arm of John of 
Lugio. No ; there was no manner 
of cheating or forcing, and the bean 
fell to the pretty Fanchon, — Mark’s 
daughter, — who blushed almost as 
red as her own bright ribbons when 
Philip L’ Estrange brought to her the 
bean on a silver plate, and made to 
her a low bow and a flourishing speech* 
in which he said that her Majesty 
Queen Felicie sent it with her royal 
regards to her Majesty Queen Fan- 
chon. The feasting went on, and the 
fun went on, and no one seemed to 
enjoy the feasting or the fun more 
than Jean Waldo himself, though he 
sat at neither table, but passed about 
from guest to guest, with a napkin on 
his arm, as one of the servants, bring- 
ing here a plate, and there a cup, and 
urging all to eat and drink , and only 
happy as he saw that his guests were 
happy, and were provided for. 

And, when the feasting seemed to 
be nearly ended, not because the 
bountiful stores provided had failed,, 
but because there is an end even to a 
Twelfth-Night appetite, Jean Waldo 
came round, and stood by John of 
Lugio, and whispered to him, and 
then the Father rose, and asked for 
silence, which awaited him of course. 
And he said, nearly what I have said, 
that this was Felicie’s feast, and that 
her father had given it for her, as hia 
simplest way of showing honor to all 
who had prayed for her and toiled for 
her on the terrible night when her 
life was in danger. “He wants to 
thank you all, and to promise you hia 
best prayers for your welfare in all 


84 


In His Name. 


your lives. He is afraid he cannot 
say what he would fhin say,” said the 
master, “and so he bids me say it for 
him to you all.” And there was great 
clapping of hands from all the guests 
at all the tables, and they all cried 
“ He is welcome, he is welcome,” and 
some cried, “ Long life to the lady 
Felicie.” And poor Felicie was cry- 
ing, as if her heart was breaking, 
though her face seemed so happy all 
the while. And her mother held her 
hand, and cried as if her heart was 
breaking too. 

And then Jean Waldo waved his 
hand, and said, “ I do not know how 
to speak as these Fathers do. But I 
must try. I must thank you all, all 
of you, with all my heart, that my 
darling is here, and that we are all 
so happy. Ah, my friends,” he said, 
“you know me for a hard man, who 
has said to you a thousand times, 
that I would take care of my affairs, 
if other people would take care of 
theirs. O, my God, I have said it 
again and again, — I know not how 
often I have said it to those who are 
in this company. But I learned every- 
thing, I think, on the eve of Noel. 
In those terrible nights I learned that 
I wanted others — O, how many others 
— to take care of me and of my dear- 
est concerns, yes, though they risked 
their lives for it, as my friend here 
did so bravely. And as those slow 
hours went by, I prayed to my God, 
and I promised him, that whether my 
darling lived or died, — whether she 
lived with me here, or with his angels 
there, — for me, I would live from that 
day forward for all my brothers, and 
all my sisters, for you, and for you, 
and for you ; yes, for all his chil- 
dren, if I could help them. But, dear 
friends, I could not begin to do this, 
without asking him to forgive me, 
and you to forgive me, that so often 


I have said I would care for myself, 
if the others for themselves would 
care. I could not begin to live for 
the rest, without asking the rest to 
pardon me that I had lived for myself 
before. And so, at little Felicie’s 
feast, I ask her, and I ask you, as I 
ask the good God, to show me how 
to take care for others, and to show 
others how to take care of me.” 

Some of the guests were weeping, 
and some of them were clapping their 
hands, and some of them were shout- 
ing “ Long life to our Host, long life 
to Master Jean.” But Father Wil- 
liam, who was standing with the tears 
running down his cheeks, waved his 
hand ; and they were all so amazed 
that he who acted as Archbishop 
should be here at all, most of all that 
he should sit and stand so near to 
John of Lugio, that they all stopped 
their shouting, that they might listen. 
And he smiled drolly, and as if he 
had a secret, upon them all, till he 
saw that all were very curious ; and 
then, with his finger, he drew in the 
air the sign of the Cross of Malta ; 
and then he said, “ I will teach our 
brother how to forget himself, and 
how to live for others. What he does, 
let him do ‘ For the Love of Christ,* 
and whom he welcomes, let him wel- 
come 

'In His Name.’” 

And then, passing behind Madame 
Waldo and little Felicie, he threw his 
own arm about John of Lugio’s neck, 
turned him, all surprised as he was, 
so that he was face to face with him, 
and kissed him. 

O, the cheering and clapping, the 
tears and the surprise ! To those who 
were initiated, the wonder was how 
the reigning prince of Lyons had 
come upon their secret. To those 
whose eyes were only partly opened 


In His Name. 


85 


to what Jean Waldo had seen so 
clearly in those visions of his terrible 
night-watches, it was as if Saladin 
and Philip had kissed each other on 
the Mount of Olives. To those in- 
itiates, who were as bigoted in their 
way as was Montferrand, it was all 
amazement, that an Archbishop of 
Lyons, or any one who sat in an 
Archbishop’s throne, should have any 
heart, or should speak aught but evil. 
To the churchmen, as to Alexander 
and Hugh and Stephen, it was relief 
unspeakable. For here was their 
chief, doing more than they had done 
to express sympathy and love which 
they were yearning to offer to all. 


Jean of Lugio himself did not 
seem surprised. With an eager em- 
brace he returned the embrace, — 
with a second kiss upon William’s 
cheek, he returned the kiss. “ Ah ! ” 
said he, “ the Kingdom of God has 
truly come. The City of God is res- 
cued, and we are in it now. Heaven 
can offer us nothing sweeter than we 
have here. You will never misun- 
derstand us, William ; we shall never 
misunderstand you. What you ask 
of us we shall perform ; for you will 
ask ‘ For the Love of Christ,’ and 
we shall answer 

‘ In His Name.* ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE WHOLE STORY. 


My uncle Adrian had brought us 
home this story, which you have been 
reading, from the city of Lyons. He 
had walked over every inch of the 
ground that Felicie had tripped over, 
that Giulio and Jean Waldo had hur- 
ried over, that the Canon William 
had passed over as he bore his weird 
candle through the darkness ; he had 
crossed the short bridge and the long 
bridge ; he had seen the site of Jean 
Waldo’s workshops ; had climbed to 
the church of St. Thomas, which is 
now “ Our Lady of Fourvieres ” ; he 
had crossed himself there, and had 
seen there the fresh votive offerings, 
which young soldiers have hung there, 
whom our Lady saved from wounds 
in the Prussian war. My uncle had 
looked across the valley of the Rhone, 
to see the distant Mont Blanc near 
thirty leagues away. 

He had been through those Dau- 
phin Mountains, and the scarped hills 
to the north of them ; down the val- 


ley of the Brevon and the Alberine, 
and along the Rhone, crossing it back 
and forth, twice, just as Father John 
of Lugio did. He would not say that 
he had found the charcoal hut of Mark 
of Seyssel, but he would say that he 
had been on the place where it might 
very well have been. 

Then he had spent a happy day, 
how happy, in that quiet but cheerful 
old library at Lyons, where nobody 
cared about Peter Waldo, but where 
all were as ready to serve my uncle as 
if he had been Henry Fifth himself. 
He is about the age of the Fifth 
Henry. And here he studied Claude 
Francis Menestrier’s ponderous civil 
or consular history of Lyons, while 
the full-length portrait of the benevo- 
lent Claude Francis Menestrier smiled 
on him from the wall above. He 
studied Montfalcon’s Monuments of 
Lyons, magnificent in its apparel and 
precision. And was it, perhaps, M. 
Montfalcon himself, who showed such 


86 


In His Name. 


courtesy to my uncle, though his 
French was so bad, and he a stranger 
without introduction? Then he stud- 
ied pamphlet upon pamphlet of in- 
dignant men who had to reply to M. 
Montfalcon for this and for that, 
for which this reader need not care, 
so that my uncle well understood that 
the flame which Peter Waldo and John 
of Lugio, and the other Poor Men of 
Lyons, lighted, was not aflame which 
burned out in one century, nor in two, 
nor in five. Nay, when my uncle 
went into the street, and found that 
the City Council were trying to lock 
out the Government Prefect from their 
own old town hall, he thought the old 
flame seemed to be burning still. 

And many a map of brook and 
river and mountain had my uncle 
brought home, — and many a sketch 
and photograph which we have not 
shown to you. He had many a story 
of those who befriended J ohn of Lugio 
and Peter Waldo, in their time. And 
long stories he had to tell us of this 
hidden valley, and that defended cave, 
in which one or another of the Poor 
Men of Lyons, or of those Walden- 
ses, who, for centuries after, defended 
the same faith, had hidden ; but these 
things had nothing to do with our lit- 
tle Felicie’s Christmas and Twelfth 
Night, so that, as my uncle writes out 
her story for you, they are not writ r 
ten down. 

It was on two warm September 
evenings," as we were all at the New 
Sybaris, by the sea shore, — two of 
those evenings when we can have 
every window open, but when, so ear- 
ly is the sunset, there are two or three 
hours after tea before it is bedtime, — 
it was on two such evenings that my 
uncle read to us the story of Felicie, 
of Jean Waldo, of Giulio the Floren- 
tine, of the ride to the hills, and the 
charcoal-burner’s hut, of John of Lu- 


gio, and of Christmas eve, as poor 
Felicie spent it, and as the Canon 
William spent it ; and then of Christ- 
mas morning, and of Felicie’s Twelfth- 
Night Feast, — the story which you 
have just now read, dear reader, to 
which you and I give the title, 

“ In His Name.” 

My boy Philip had been permitted to 
sit up later than usual, to hear the end 
of the Twelfth-Night Feast. When 
it was finished, his mother bade him. 
take his candle, but he lingered a mo- 
ment to ask his uncle the inevitable 
question, u Is it true, Uncle Adrian ? '* 

44 I do not know why not,” said my 
uncle. 44 Peter of Waldo was driven 
out, just thus and so, and John of 
Lugio with him, — two men of whom 
the world was not worthy. Richard 
and Philip went to the Crusade just 
there and then, and broke down the 
bridge as the story tells you. Aver- 
roes and Abulcasis, and a dozen oth- 
ers like them, had, just then, set every 
man of sense in Europe on the studies 
which turned the old quackeries of 
medicine upside down. And the 4 Poor 
Men of Lyons,’ and their associates 
in the mountains, had to protect them- 
selves with all their wits, I can tell 
you, and with more passwords than 
the story tells you of, as they went 
back and forth from city to mountain. 
Which Canon William took the dean’s 
place when he was away, the story 
does not tell, and I do not know, but 
it was some Canon William. Whether 
Coeur-Blanc’sfeet were white or black, 
the story does not tell, and I do not 
know ; nor whether Mark’s daughter 
Fanchon were fifteen or sixteen. But 
this is true, I am sure, that none of 
them in the end failed who did any- 
thing 4 for the Love of Christ,’ if they 
could find anybody to join them 4 in 
His Name.’ ” 


In His Name. 


87 


u My dear Philip,” said his Aunt 
Priscilla, 44 there has been just the 
same story going on in this last week, 
here under your nose, only you have 
been too busy with your boat and 
your gun to see it or hear it.” 

44 Going on here, dear aunt?” 

“It is always going on, Philip. 
Jesus Christ is giving life more 
abundantly, and awakening the 
dead now, just as he said he would. 
When Dr. Sargent gets up at mid- 
night, and rides behind the old gray 
twenty miles before morning, to poor 
old Mrs. Fetridge’s bedside, do you 
suppose he does it because he thinks 
the town will pay him half-a-dollar for 
going ? He does it because Jesus Christ 
bade him do it, though very likely he 
never says he does it 4 for the love of 
Christ/ or 4 In His Name/ When 
Mr. Johnson sent down the mustard 
that I put on Mary’s chest last night, 
sharp mustard and fiery, instead of 
sending saw-dust, colored with turme- 
ric ; do you suppose he did it to save 
your father’s custom ? He did it be- 
cause he would rather die than cheat 
any man out of the shadow of a pen- 


ny. And that comes from what your 
Father John would have called 4 the 
love of Christ,’ and working 4 in his 
name.’ Or when the expressman came 
in afoot last night, with the telegram 
from Kingston, when his team had 
broken down, because he was afraid 
it was important, do you think he 
walked those five miles because any* 
body hired him ? He did not make 
any cross of Malta, and he did not 
speak any password at the door ; 
but, all the same, the good fellow did 
his message for 4 the love of Christ,’ 
and never would have done it if he 
had not lived and moved, his life 
long, among people who are confed- 
erated 4 in his name.’ 

44 Five hundred years hence, dear 
Phil, they will publish a story about 
you and me. We shall seem very ro- 
mantic then ; and we shall be worth 
reading about, if what we do is sim- 
ple enough, and brave enough, and 
loving enough, for anybody to think 
that we do it 4 for the love of Christ/ 
or for anybody to guess that we had 
been bound together 

44 In His Name.” 



4 




✓ 


♦ 




t 
















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“ baby’s book” — it is more, being both entertaining and instructive for years of the life of 
the boy or girl. 

When the lesson permits, which is nearly always the case, it is fully illustrated with the 
most appropriate and suggestive cuts. 

It Has Absolutely No Competitor in the Market. 

Every page shows a rare simplicity in conveying sparkling truths that will elate the lit- 
tle child, and edify his nurse, parent or older companion. 

The pictures are all designed and engraved expressly for this book. The book is given 
to the public in the hope that it may assist parents and teachers in the arduous work of 
educating the next generation, and will be found of invaluable assistance in the kinder- 
garten. 

We invite the attention of Agents to the large number of flattering commendations of 
the press. Papers of the reputation and ability of those which here follow, would not 
mislead the public or our agents. We confidently believe that no book issued during the 

E ast ten years presents the selling qualities of “ Mother Truth’s Melodies.” The work can 
e sold in connection with any other that an agent may be interested in, and will neither 
compete nor interfere with such other sales. 

DESCRIPTION AND PRICES. 

“Mother Truth’s Melodies” are published in one quarto volume, of nearly 300 pages, 
printed from clear new type, on fine, tinted, heavy super-calendered paper, made expressly 
for this book, and illustrated with nearly four hundred illustrations. It is bound in the 
most substantial and elegant manner, side stamps in black and gold, of beautiful designs, 
and is furnished to subscribers at the following prices : 

QUARTO EDITION . J . 12mo. EDITION . 

In English Cloth $1 75 i In English Cloth $1 so 

In English Cloth , Oilt Edges . 2 25 j In English Cloth, Qilt Edges . 2 00 

SOLD ONLY ON SUBSCRIPTION. 


003^3^El>nD^.TI01TS. 


Mother Truth’s Melodies. 


It is certainly the best hook for children we have ever seen. We are using it in our 
department, and the children are delighted with it. Mrs. N. S. Welch, 

Primary Teacher, Buchanan, Mich. 

I am truly delighted with it; it meets a long-felt want. The illustrations are numerous 
and very line; the book is a perfect kindergarten. I do not know of a more charming book 
for children. Hon. L. P. Alden, Supt. State School, Coldwater, Mich. 

It is certainly a great improvement on “ Mother Goose.” 

Prof. E. Olney, LL. D., Ann Arbor, Mich. 

I cordially recommend it to all parents as a book with which, not only the children, but 
they themselves as well, will be delighted. 

Hon. W. L. Smith, Deputy Supt. of Public Instruction, Lansing, Mich. 

It has a place in children’s literature not before occupied. 

Mrs. Kendall Brooks, Kalamazoo, Mich. 

It meets our ideal of a nursery and childhood book more nearly than any other that we 
have ever seen. Prof, and Mrs. A. E. Haynes, Hillsdale (College), Mich. 

We commend the book heartily to all —Herald of Health. 

This is a very excellent book for the little ones.— New Haven (Conn.) Union. 

It ought to help the nurses to wise living and correct learning.— N. 7. Times. 

Every mother in the land ought to have a copy of this charming book.— Evansville (Ind.) 
Journal. 

We commend it to all and invoke a blessing on young “Mother Truth.”— Home Visitor, 
Chicago. 

The deepest and most intricate truths of science and natural history are presented in 
a wonderful simple manner.— Jersey City (N. J.) Journal. 

It contains not one untruth or foolish saying; it is a gem of a book.— Boston (Mass.) 
Comm issioner. 

We congratulate the author on her success, and shall order many numbers for the use 
of our own household and our immediate friends.— Jaws of Health , WemersYille, Pa. 

It is the best juvenile work we have ever seen, and needs only to be read to be appre- 
ciated and relished.— Grand Rapids (Mich.) Leader. 

Every lover of children and truth will be interested in this charming book; every house 
in the land should have a copy; it will entertain and instruct more truly and more sen- 
sibly than any other book we ever saw. — Hacon (Ga.) Kind Words. 

The illustrations are profuse and appropriate, and help materially to make clear the 
text to the young mind. It is, on the whole, a happy effort to put into rhyme truths of value 
in after lif a.— Lynn (Mass.) Transcript. 

Our old friend, little Jack Horner, is here still, but reformed; the nonsensical, “Hi- 
diddle-diddle” of “Mother Goose ” becomes exalted into the music of the spheres.— N. 7. 
Home Journal. 

It is the latest, handsomest, most instructive and interesting book for children we have 
on our table, and as a work of art and merit it surpasses anything of the kind we have ever 
seen. There are not a dozen pages in the work but are alone worth the price of the book.— 
Indianapolis (Ind.) Sun. 

This volume will be welcome to conscientious mothers and nurses, as it combines amuse- 
ment and instruction for infantile and immature minds, in the true kindergarten spirit. 
Mothers will enjoy them as lullabies, and the little ones in riper years will have nothing to 
unlearn These first impressions will remain as a ground-work to facilitate their future 
education It is difficult to conceive, without reading this book, that science and morals 
can be made so simple and easy as to be attractive to the youngest child; but so it is, and 
by it we know that it is as easy for a child to learn and remember that the sun is the “mid- 
dle” planet of our solar system, as “ the cow jumps over the moon.” What a saving of time 
and motions, when the melodies of childhood impart lessons in mathematics, astronomy, 
botany chemistry hygiene, anatomy, ethics and morals— lessons that never have to be un- 
learned- foundations of truth that never have to be uprooted. Surely our friends have 
conferred a blessing on humanity, and given a helping hand to kindergarten education.— 
Washington (D. C.) Alpha. 


GEN. U. S. GRANT’S 

TOUR AROUND THE WORLD. 

Edited by L. T. Ilemlap (Palmer). 

Contains a full and accurate description of General Grant’s Tour: the receptions, both 
public and private, tendered him; addresses of welcome— his responses; his conversations 
with public men, and a full description of entertainments, gossip, etc.; also receptions on 
the Pacific Coast, and the unprecedented series of receptions at Chicago, November 12th to 
20th inclusive. Elegantly illustrated. One large quarto volume, 500 pages. Twentieth 
thousand now ready. The only book on the General’s Tour printed in English and German. 

Cloth, Back and Side in Black and Gold $2 00 

Cloth, Gilt Edges, Back and Side in Black and Gold 2 50 

Popular Edition, Paper Cover.. 1 25 


THE MASQUE TORN OFF. 

By T. DeWitt Talmage, D.D., 


Author of “ Crumbs Swept Up," “ Around the Tea Table,'' “ Abominations of 
Modeirn Society “ Sports that Kill," etc., etc. 

One large Octavo volume of 526 pages, elegantly illustrated with 14 full-page engravings. 
Contains the discourses as lately delivered in the Brooklyn Tabernacle— giving Dr. Talmage’s 
experiences and observations as lately seen by him, in company with two elders of his 
church and three high police officials, during their midnight explorations in the haunts of 
vice of New York City. They have been revised by him for this work, and are written in 
his strongest descriptive powers — sparkling with graceful images and illustrative anecdotes, 
terrible in their earnestness, uncompromising in his denunciation of sin and wickedness 
wherever found, sparing neither friend nor foe, rich nor poor. Every page of intense inter- 
est. No one can read this work without taking new interest in the subjects treated. 

The work contains nearly forty chapters — on as many subjects— and are Dr. Tal- 
mage’s best efforts in his earnest, aggressive warfare upon the foes of society, and the ex- 
posure of the traps and pitfalls that beset the youth of our land in every city. He sounds a 
note of warning , and points out the only way to escape these pits of darkness and social 
and moral ruin. Twenty-fifth edition now ready. 


Cloth $2 00 

Cloth, Gilt 2 50 

Half Morocco 3 50 


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